


Driftless

by Kathar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alexander Pierce - Freeform, Andrew Garner - Freeform, Background Character Deaths, Cave-In, Caves, Eventual Happy Ending, Fake Marriage, Fire, Get Together, Loss, M/M, Melinda May - Freeform, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), RST, Relationship Discussions, Spelunking, UST, bobbi morse - Freeform, check chapter notes for additional warnings, definitely a canon divergence AU, dubious uses of archeology, farmer's market flirting, not really a college AU, not really an archaeology AU, passive aggressive quinoa, terrible taxidermy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2018-12-22 17:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 200,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11972538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: When a professor of archaeology at a midwestern university disappears while on a dig, the Director of SHIELD takes an unexpected interest. Now Agents Clint Barton and Phil Coulson are being sent to the city of Driftless to investigate. Undercover. As married students.Clint quickly finds himself knee-deep in potsherds and surrounded by suspects-- and possibly even zombies-- while navigating his pseudo-relationship with Phil.Phil, meanwhile, is having the time of his life. It's the perfect opportunity for him to finish his PhD dissertation and rid himself of his annoying preoccupation with Clint's ass. Or so he thinks.But in Driftless, very little is exactly what it seems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh, look at that, another serial. I hope you're all buckled up and settled in. A little business, before we set off:  
> Driftless will post once every four weeks, sometime during the weekend. No, it's not finished. Yes, I have a buffer. I expect about 13 chapters but you know better than to hold me to that. 
> 
> Content warnings, such as they are, will vary by chapter and will be posted in the chapter notes. The rating WILL GO UP. I will indeed warn you first. Please, as always, let me know if a tag or a heads-up on anything will help you. 
> 
> Driftless would not be possible without the amazing, dedicated, above and beyond the call work of a team of betas and cheerleaders. [JHSC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JHSC/pseuds/JHSC) and [Laura Kaye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye) beta so hard. [Faeleverte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte) is a tireless assistant in plot development. Without them, nothing.
> 
> For those curious, the Driftless is a region made up of bits of Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota and Illinois. The City of Driftless, and its state university, do not actually exist. However, it absolutely could.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton and Phil Coulson get a new mission, and become-- with a lot of help from their friends at SHIELD-- Clint Ford and Phil Moore, mild-mannered ex-Army university students and spouses.

“Either of you are allowed to back out,” Director Fury said as he finished the briefing. He folded his hands in front of him and leaned back in his chair, letting his one good eye drift between the two agents seated across the desk from him. Behind him, the big glass windows were nearly black as an early summer storm raced across the Potomac. 

Clint wondered just how much he actually meant it.

It was the first time Clint had been in his office since he’d narrowly avoided suspension about six months previously, after he’d saved the life of the Black Widow, directly against orders. While the Black Widow had since become Nat, his sparring partner, and the information she’d brought with her had led to no fewer than three intelligence coups for Fury, he wasn’t sure how far back into Director Fury’s good graces— and SHIELD’s, by extension— he really was. 

This mission might well be a test. 

“What happens if one of us does?” Agent Coulson asked, from next to Clint. Coulson had his briefing packet open in his lap, but was watching Fury instead. 

“My problem, not yours,” Fury said, shrugging lightly. 

“Nick,” Coulson said, leaning on it. Clint risked a glance over; he didn’t think Coulson’d noticed him being nervous, but he also thought Coulson probably knew the answer and was asking for his benefit.

“I have other field agents that can act mostly on their own,” Fury said after a long look at Clint, “and I have other field agents who could even pass as undergrads— especially since the cover is a non-traditional student, which gives us a wide berth. It doesn’t have to be you two, or you two together.”

Clint thought that over. He understood the covers just fine: two ex-military types, using the GI bill— Clint as an undergrad and Coulson to finish off the Doctorate he’d started near the end of his twenty year enlistment— and married. To each other.

No, Clint’s real question was why  _ him,  _ exactly? This was undercover work, and while Clint’d had some training, he’d barely used it since he’d come to SHIELD two years previously, and it hadn’t been a big feature in his previous career as a mercenary. SHIELD had a whole stable of field agents with more experience than he had— and whose presumed marriage would be legal in more than one state, to boot. And who hadn’t gone rogue in the last year.

Well, he might as well ask it— Coulson’d opened the way, and Fury’s answer had seemed unfinished.

“I get why Coulson’s a good fit, since he’s actually got a doctorate to finish and all—” Coulson shifted next to Clint, making a little surprised sound like he hadn’t expected Clint to know that, which was weird, because it wasn’t a secret or anything— “and he’s real good at discreet and everything. But me? I mean, what skill set are you looking for me to bring to this?”

“Huh,” Fury said. Clint watched him closely for signs of annoyance, but if anything he looked faintly pleased. “Good question, Barton. For one thing, you’re good at small. You were a merc long enough that I’m not worried about you being able to do without support. Hell, sometimes I wonder if you don’t think having an entire organization at your back, with comms and check-ins and a system, cramps your style.”

I, ah—” Clint searched for a tactful way to say,  _ it does cramp my style _ and gave it up. “I really appreciate the dental plan,” he said. 

Which he did, and after years of getting used to it, he’d come to appreciate SHIELD’s support and its people more than he’d thought he would when he’d first come in, in desperate need of government backing but resentful all the same.

“I’ll let HR know,” Fury told him. “Benefits negotiation is sometimes worse than hostage negotiation. No, beyond that, Barton, what I want you to bring to this mission is your impressive ability to improvise in unexpected circumstances. Any other questions? Coulson?” 

While they were talking, Coulson had started thumbing through his packet, humming here and there. Now, he grunted in a way that made Clint want to double-check each page for signs he’d missed something bad. Coulson was far more likely to spot a problem than Clint, who tended to find them at approximately the moment he stepped in them. 

“Do we have an estimate on time to completion?” Coulson asked, “because there are projects I shouldn’t be away from for too long. Unless you’re planning to pass them off--”

“No-one’s going to take Project Franklin from you, Phil,” Fury snorted. “We’ll put it on ice till you get back.” 

Whatever Project Franklin was, Coulson clearly didn’t find the allusion near half so funny as Fury did.

“That’s cold, Nick,” he drawled, and Fury flat-out chuckled.

“Hey, I thought I was doing you a favor here,” Fury said. “If she’d been at, say, Berkeley instead of Driftless I might be more convinced by your hesitation. But not every university houses a whole Howling Commando archive.”

“Not  _ any _ university,” Coulson corrected him. “I admit having Dugan’s archives handy would be helpful for the thesis… if I don’t end up having to rewrite it all. I suppose I could do a lot with a semester, even if it is just a six week summer session….” 

He sounded a little wistful and that, as much as the proposed timeline, drove the breath from Clint’s lungs for a moment.

“Do you think it’s going to take the whole six weeks?” he asked once he managed to find his voice. “It’s just— this Dr Magnos’s been missing a week, so we’ll be on a cold trail already by the time you get us set up on campus.  It’s not like she disappeared  _ there _ , anyway, we’re just looking for anything hinky she might have gotten up to before she left. It seems like if there’s anything  _ to _ find, it’s gonna happen quickly or not at all.”

“I hope so,” Fury replied, “but I’m not optimistic. If there’s anything going on, they’ve had more than enough time to bury it. I agree, though, that you should be able to tell in the first few days if anything feels off— or if your Director is just feeling guilty.”

“Guilty?” Clint asked, leaning forward.

“Yeah, Barton. I let a valuable SHIELD scientist wander off on sabbatical for a year without protection. I hope it’s just my conscience talking, and she didn’t stumble into anything SHIELD has to take an interest in. Secretary Pierce and our division in Guatemala have both told me over and over there’s no evidence of anything but rotten luck. As far as they can tell, the dig she was on was clean.”

“Over and over?” Coulson asked, leaning forward, and Fury nodded. Something passed in between them that Clint couldn’t quite read. If he were a betting man, though (which he kind of was), he’d have put down good money that any time someone told either of them to chill that often, they both did the opposite. 

Clint did, too, as it happened. 

“Any other objections?” Fury asked again. “You can tell me in private, if you need to.” 

Coulson shot a quick look at Clint from beneath his eyelashes, and turned back to Fury. 

“None on this end. Everything seems satisfactory.” 

_ Satisfactory _ , Clint repeated in his head, fighting down a grin. Coulson thought he was satisfactory. 

Well, good— since if this op went as long as Fury seemed to think it might, it’d be awkward if Coulson  _ didn’t _ think Clint was satisfactory. Hard to pretend to be someone’s lovin’ man if you didn’t even like them.

Clint didn’t think he’d have a hard time with that. 

He’d had limited chances to see Coulson outside of missions, but what he’d seen had been impressive. Coulson had a fine ass, an even finer form on the firing range, and decent taste in beer. More importantly, Coulson’s voice in his ear on a mission meant it was going to succeed, no matter how fucked you thought you were in the middle. And Coulson always had time afterwards for a side-word to young agents, a “you did good” shoulder pat or, better still, a note on where you could do better next time. Clint might’ve kinda sorta been harboring a little professional crush-type thing on him. 

Well— “crush” might be a strong word. 

He just liked Coulson. Liked being around him. And liked his ass, too-- Clint was man enough to admit it. And his eyes. And those powerful hands currently curled around the briefing packet, and his mobile face, that always seemed open and expressive until you realized that no one could actually be quite that amiable all the time. (Or until you saw him take out a wanna-be human smuggler he’d been joking with half a moment before, without changing his expression a bit.) 

Coulson was cool, was all, and Clint’d been looking for an excuse to get to know him better-- not  _ know _ know, though. Just regular old know, in the completely secular sense. SHIELD’s frat rules were notable for their vagueness, but Clint had pushed more than his share of agency boundaries and the thought of pushing one more just made him feel tired. Something about Coulson just made Clint feel… warm. He hadn’t felt that way about people near often enough in his life, and that was way more important than whatever his dick might think. 

What Clint wanted was a chance to dig under Coulson’s Senior Agent exterior and see what he turned up, and this mission seemed like an ideal opportunity.

“Yeah, I’m in,” he said, and let his enthusiasm leak through a little. 

Going undercover as Coulson’s husband, living with him in a cramped townhouse, with limited SHIELD support or oversight, seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. Coulson would fake being a graduate student at work on his— apparently very real and long-delayed-- dissertation. Clint would dig around in the dirt pretending to be an archaeology undergrad. And between them, he and Coulson would figure out whether the university’s latest expedition had actually gone all Indiana Jones, or whether someone in the department had gotten a little too sleep deprived last finals and started hallucinating.

A little spooky, a lot domestic, and just the two of them, hanging out.

What could possibly go wrong?

 

####

“What do you mean ‘think about all the ways this could go wrong,’ Andrew?” Phil asked, frowning over coffee as he sat at the May-Garner breakfast bar. 

Over the years they’d known each other, Andrew and Melinda had gotten used to unexpectedly finding Phil at their door volunteering to drive Melinda into SHIELD in the morning. It usually meant he had a tricky operation he wanted to talk over with Melinda on the drive. 

And he did— he was going to be handing several files off to her before he and Barton left for their undercover assignment. He might have come a little earlier than usual, but that was just because he and Andrew hadn’t had a chance to catch up in a while. He hadn’t expected Andrew to start psychoanalyzing him before breakfast.

It did seem to end up happening a fair amount though, he had to admit. At least this time, Phil was pretty sure he knew what was coming. He was right.

“Phil,” Andrew Garner sighed, setting down his own coffee and leaning over the bar, “I’m a little concerned that  _ you’re _ not more concerned about this assignment. We all know what happened with Melinda.”

Phil glanced behind Andrew reflexively, just to make sure that Melinda hadn’t finished getting changed and wandered back into the kitchen.

“There’s nothing to be concerned about. And the one with Melinda worked out pretty well for you in the end,” Phil grumped. 

“I’m not disagreeing,” Andrew told him, “but polygamy isn’t legal, so I can’t take Barton off your hands at the end of the op like I did Melinda.”

“That is not how it went. In fact, as I remember it, Melinda refused to date you for a good six months afterwards.”

“Melinda refused to date anyone for a good six months afterwards,” Andrew pointed out. “You’d traumatized her that badly.”

“I’m not that easy to traumatize, dear,” Melinda said, and Phil sighed. Despite how carefully he’d watched, she’d still managed to make it into the kitchen without him seeing-- she’d just come up behind  _ him _ , not her husband. “But seriously Phil, you’re really hard to live with.”

“You weren’t a peach yourself,” Phil retorted, because he liked to live dangerously. 

It was true, though. Their fake marriage-op in Orange County, undertaken when they were both dewy young juniors, was still the talk of the senior agents. They’d gone into it close friends. On the verge of more-than-friends, even. Phil still remembered, vaguely, how every sparring session they’d had left them both breathless, panting, and staring into each other’s eyes. How well they moved as a team, complemented each other in the field.

Well, they still did. He enjoyed every op he went on with Melinda May.

He just never, ever, under any circumstances, wanted to live with her ever again. He’d die first.

The romantic tension between them had turned into aggravated silence by the middle of the op. It had, paradoxically, made their public performance better. Possibly that was because they were both so very determined to get it all over with and never have to share a bathroom again. 

“You have only yourself to blame for anything I said to you,” Melinda said, wagging her finger at him. “And I’m warning you now, this little thing you have with Barton? Isn’t going to survive an hour of living together. You’re a complete jerk to live with.”

“I don’t have a ‘thing’ with Barton,” Phil yelped.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Coulson,” Andrew sighed, “Melinda’s a senior agent, I’m a psychologist to spies, you really going to deny it to us? Hell, at this point I think kids just out of the Academy could tell. You’re smiling so much around Barton that Felix Blake had asked Melinda if you’d been exposed to something from the R&D department after your last mission.”

Of course Blake had noticed, too, how could he not have? On the mission in question Phil’d had to go bust out a window and jump through it, just to keep from kissing Barton as a reward for a shot that should not have been humanly possible.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t… that I didn’t admire Barton,” Phil temporized. “He’s… got many impressive qualities.” For instance, he had shoulders ought to have been hung in a museum (not physically hung, obviously, just maybe in pectoral-- er, pictoral-- form). “He’s an incredible agent, I’ve never seen anyone do what he can do with a bow— or a bottle cap. He’s devilishly creative in the field, he’s got nerves of steel, great tactical skills— and he’s  _ funny _ , which is the least fair part about it. I could handle the rest of it if he didn’t insist on being goofy around me, like… like getting me to crack a smile is the best thing he can do with his day. Stop rolling your eyes at me, Mel.”

“You’re not helping your argument here, Phil,” Melinda said. “You like him, he likes you. You have a thing with him.”

“I like him, but ‘with’ implies reciprocation. There’s nothing personal in what Barton does. He’s built a… a nearly impenetrable shield of sass to protect himself, that’s all. Andrew, back me up.” 

“Mmm,” Andrew said, and very deliberately sipped his coffee.

“How did you become a senior agent, Phil?” Melinda sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. There’s no reciprocation. And there will never  _ be _ any reciprocation, if you go on this mission with Barton.”

“I know that. That’s what I’m counting on.”

“I’m sorry,” Andrew said, setting down his mug, “I think I heard that wrong. You’re  _ counting _ on that?”

Phil paused. It was never a good sign when Andrew started repeating your words back to you. Still— Phil was certain of this. He’d gone over it several times since his meeting in Fury’s office, and each time it became clearer to him.

“Yes, I am. Look, I really like working with Barton, and I really want to keep working with him. If I’m reading Fury right, that’s the direction he’s got both Barton and Romanoff headed in, too, once Romanoff’s allowed off base without chaperones. But if I can’t manage to squash this stupid attraction, some day I might forget myself enough to  _ act _ on it. I just want to make sure  that never happens.”

“What are you saying, Phil?” Melinda asked, narrowing her eyes. “Are you trying to make him hate you, or make you hate him?” 

“Hate is such a strong word,” Phil demurred. “I’d just… like to get us closer to the footing you and I have.”

Melinda and Andrew both winced. But Phil knew they both caught his meaning: razing the possibility of a romance from their futures had actually made himself and Melinda work more smoothly together in the field— well, it had after Melinda finally started speaking to him again. Over the decade-plus since, they’d become close friends. Hopefully, like Melinda, Clint would forgive Phil for trying to preserve their working relationship by putting him through the hell of having to pretend to be in love with Phil.

“I feel sorry for Barton,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “It’s not his fault you’ve been making goo-goo eyes at him.”

“I don’t make goo-goo eyes,” Phil said, as evenly as he could manage. “And it’s in Barton’s best interests.”

Phil knew himself, after all. Melinda was right; he was a complete jerk to live with. Even his cat had said so. A few days of Barton in close quarters should bring Phil’s natural prickliness to the fore. He should stop finding Barton’s goofiness amusing, he should spot something imperfect about that perfect ass. In short, he should be able to kill this damned inconvenient attraction before it got out of hand.

Even if he somehow failed to stop finding Barton remarkable, Barton was practically guaranteed to never want to cohabit so much as a timeshare condominium with Phil again. Barton had never shown any  interest beyond general flirtation, but this way he never would. Phil would never be tempted to say yes. He would never disappoint Barton for real, never be disappointed by him. And Phil would be safe. 

He didn’t understand why both Andrew and Melinda were rolling their eyes at him. He’d make it as easy on Barton as he could.

And as far as the rest of the operation was concerned, it wasn’t all that hard. It was, as Fury had pointed out, a good way for Barton to get more experience on extended ops without a lot of outside support. Because of the delicacy of the situation— the missing anthropologist had been on sabbatical from SHIELD when she vanished, and there was no obvious connection to her SHIELD work— the WSC had already expressed a disinclination to spend extensive resources tracking her. 

But Phil and Barton were hardly extensive resources, and this could be considered a training mission for Barton and half-vacation for Phil, a chance to finish his dissertation on Peggy Carter. His very real dissertation, which had been languishing for five years while he was  _ in absentia _ at American University. He’d never had both the down-time and the physical health to get it done at the same time— which Nick Fury knew damn well, because it was his ascension to the Directorship that had made Phil too busy to finish. Barton was so independent in the field that Phil should have one last chance to complete.

So, on the whole, Phil was very satisfied with both his official and unofficial mission objectives.

How could it possibly go wrong?

 

####

Three weeks later, Clint identified the first thing that could go wrong on the mission: they had let Jasper Sitwell talk them out of hiring movers. 

He should’ve insisted on paying out of pocket for SHIELD’s undercover movers (who were all junior agents at the Ops Academy, on rotation). Coulson had also volunteered to pay, but Sitwell had stood firm that it’d be the kind of requisition that would have to go through OpSec, and did they really,  _ really _ want the Business Office getting involved? Because the Director had told him to keep this shit at the level that discretionary expenses could take care of. They were already pushing it with the forged marriage certificates and the transcripts, which he’d had new agents create as training exercises— the last thing they needed was someone in procurement asking an awkward question and unraveling everything.

So here Clint was, on an appropriately muggy and miserable day in early June, hauling heavy furniture up a cramped, shag-carpeted staircase with two twists and a floor-to-ceiling wooden screen that had made moving an exercise in quantum physics. With his ex. 

That part was just the cherry on the shit sundae. 

He was pretty sure there had to have been  _ some _ other field agent with the right clearance level who was willing to help them off the books. Why Sitwell’d thought Bobbi Morse was a good idea, Clint didn’t know. Maybe it was revenge— Sitwell’d been known to hold a grudge for decades and this could be payback for Brindisi.

And all this shifting furniture was stirring up some memories he wished weren’t in his head at the moment. He and Bobbi had been married for a hot minute before it had become all too clear that they were good friends and great at sex but lousy at being in a relationship together. But that hot minute had definitely entailed moving things, and fights about moving things, and Clint’s general inadequacy at following directions and paying attention to people when they told you the couch wouldn’t fit in that door. 

“You keep looking at me like I’m gonna be dragged out behind a shed and shot, Bobs,” Clint said, “and it’s starting-- oof-- to worry me.”

He rested the bottom of the dresser on the stair for half a moment, and looked over the scratched top at Bobbi Morse. 

“You should be worried,” she hissed. “C’mon, Clint, pick your damn end up before I drop this thing.”

“Sorry,” Clint resettled his hands and heaved. The edge of the dresser caught against the unfamiliar ring on his left hand, nearly dislocating it. Clint sucked in a breath and fought down the red mist that built behind his eyes. He dropped the dresser to rub his hand.

“Clint!” Bobbi yelped. 

“Gah, sorry, not used to this damn thing yet,” he said, waving his hand at her. “Just gets in the way.”

Bobbi raised her glance from the ring to his face, and gave him a disturbingly blank look.

“I’m sure it does. Can you just hold up your end, please, Clint?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint pulled off the wedding ring and stuck it in a pocket, before grabbing the dresser. He’d have to put it back on soon, before he forgot, he knew. Couldn’t have people noticing he didn’t have a tan line on that finger. But maybe he could finish hauling the world’s most awkward piece of clothing storage first.

“Fuck SHIELD anyway,” he grumbled as he lifted, “I still say there had to be a way to get someone to do this for us. Maybe we should’ve just hired actual normal movers or something. What SHIELD doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”

“You’re supposed to be students,” Bobbi reminded him. 

“Students don’t get movers?”

“No,” she said, sighing as the finally made the top of the stairs and dropped the dresser with a thunk. “They don’t. Damnit, are you and Coulson planning on hiding a gun safe in this thing?”

“No, that’s supposed to be in the shoe locker,” Clint told her, before hoisting the dresser again to  drag it into the little bedroom. “This is for our jeans. We should be-- what the fuck?” He turned as they entered the bedroom, and the afternoon sun hit him hard. “Do we not have curtains or shit?”

“Wow,” Bobbi said, looking past him out the window, “this is going to be even more awkward than I thought.”

Clint joined her, taking in the panoramic view the window afforded of the student co-op housing he and Coulson were moving into for their mission.

It had been built sometime in the 1970s, by architects clearly more interested either in their bongs or in bringing the outdoors in than in outdated notions like privacy. The streets were cul-de-sacs, and meandering concrete paths led away from them, stepping up a gentle slope that was topped by trees. Most of the buildings were townhomes like theirs: split into quarters so that each unit had two levels. The downstairs, where Coulson and Sitwell were unpacking furniture and dishes, was open-plan, with a window even bigger than the one Clint and Bobbi were staring out of. As if that wasn’t bad enough, their bedroom and kitchen walls were shared with neighbors, for maximum eavesdropping fun. 

But somehow, when the Sitwell had been going on and on about the great sightlines that the large picture windows in the bedroom and the living room would give them, it had never occurred to Clint what that would mean for daily life.

“Don’t worry,” Bobbi said, reading the horror in his face. “We’ll hang some sheets over it or something. And there’s the alcove behind the closet; maybe put the, ah, shoe locker there?”

“Desk goes there,” Clint sighed. “Sheets is what grad students use? We don’t get real curtains?”

“Yes,” Bobbi said firmly, as if she hadn’t gotten her doctorate while in SHIELD’s employ. “But the ceilings are too high to use sheets in the living room. Maybe you can get blinds, but…. Clint, I hate to tell you this… even once you get blinds up, between shadows and how thin the walls are… you’re gonna have to be on all the time.”

Clint stared out of his huge-ass window, across the little quad at the row of housing facing him, its stained wood and glass panes gleaming in the late sun. (And yes, he could see now, grad students did seem to mostly use sheets-- or flags-- or nothing and oh god no the cactus, dude, that’s not right-- for curtains.) 

“You really think anyone’s going to look in our window and tell--”

“What you guys are doing? Yeah, Clint,” Bobbi said. “I think it’s fine to talk shop in normal voices, but as far as demonstrating affection goes? You’re going to have to pretend to love Coulson, even in private.” 

Clint looked over at her curiously. The way she said it, it sounded like a fucking death sentence. Like “you’ve got stage four cancer of the dick.” 

It seemed a little extreme for the situation. Yeah, it could get a little rough, having to be handsy with Coulson 24/7— well, maybe not 24. Surely he wouldn’t have to, like, spoon the guy while they slept. Now  _ that _ would get awkward, what with the fact that you could bounce a penny off Coulson’s ass. Even without spooning, Clint defied anyone not to react when in bed with those buns. But everyone popped morning wood; he could chalk any awkwardness up to that. 

“I don’t see the big deal,” Clint replied as they finished shoving the dresser against the wall next to the staircase. “That’s the cover, right? Married couple. Coulson’s cool--” and hot-- “it’s not going to be a problem to cuddle a bit.”

“Well that would be a change for you,” Bobbi said, then slapped a hand over her mouth. 

Clint side-eyed her, but let it go. Just another one of the misunderstandings that had been the key features of their brief marriage. Thing was, he’d have liked to be clingy with her, so bad. But Bobbi’d always seemed so self-contained, he’d thought she’d hate it. So he’d made himself be flip about it, even in private— he’d practiced over and over, trying to contain his natural puppy dog. And he’d done such a good job that even when she’d finally complained, he hadn’t been able to break his own conditioning. That wasn’t her fault.

“It’s fine,” he said, “I can do it long as I need. Always did like an audience.”

“Christ, Clint, you make it sound so calculated.”

And as always, Clint found, he couldn’t win.

“It’s an  _ op _ , Bobbi, how is it supposed to sound?”

“I don’t know,” Bobbi sighed, running her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry. But seriously, Clint, are you sure you’re okay with this? I thought you, you know, had a thing for Coulson.”

“Yeah,” Clint shrugged, “kinda. So what? I’m not gonna make a move on him, Bobbi, yeesh. I mean— not on this mission, but also not in general, okay? I’m not stupid enough to try for a… a  _ thing _ with him. I just figure this is a chance to get to know him a bit out of… okay, not out out of work, but, not in the office. Bonding experience or whatever.” 

“Or whatever” being whatever it took to get Coulson to give him more of the approving smiles he doled out on down-time. He hadn’t gotten to hang out with Coulson much outside of work, but the few times he had-- beers with him and Sitwell after their last op, for instance-- Clint had come home beaming. Coulson never made him feel like he was being judged or like he had to perform, but he didn’t seem to mind when Clint couldn’t turn himself off, when he ended up playing to the back seats even in a dim bar. Clint knew he could be a bit much; it wasn’t often he found someone who didn’t mind. After everything shitty he’d gotten in his life, that wasn’t an experience he could stop himself chasing even if the attraction thing was a little inconvenient.

“You say that now,” Bobbi said, “but you’re not exactly known for self-control in your love life, Clint.”

“I know,” Clint told her. “That’s the point, Bobs. If I were gonna fall in love with the guy or anything stupid like that, I’d’ve done it already. It’s not like that, and it’s not going to be like that, so I don’t have to worry about it. I like Coulson, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re not going to like him after this,” Bobbi told Clint, with some relish. 

“I’m not?” Clint asked, shocked. It really was beginning to feel like they’d slipped back to being married— maybe having her help had been a bad idea. 

“Nope,” Bobbi said, looking out the window herself. “Not if my sources are accurate. It’s not really a secret, Clint. No one’s wanted to do a fake married op with Coulson since he and Melinda May nearly killed each other.”

“Why?” Clint asked, and let the question stand in for a whole host: why did they do that? Why would anyone think it wasn’t just a fluke? Why didn’t anyone tell me earlier? 

“She never said,” Bobbi told him as they picked up the dresser again to move away from the wall, leaving room for his bow behind it. “Or if she did, it never made it into the rumor mill. But most people think it was just Coulson being Coulson, you know?”

“Not really,” Clint said, because the idea didn’t sound that off-putting to him.“I mean, he’s got high standards, yeah, but he’s always nice. Hell, even if he thinks you’re useless, he’s nice. I thought everyone at SHIELD liked him. Even people who don’t want to like him, like Agent Hand, they still like him. I heard her complaining about it one time.”

“Okay, sure, he’s nice,” Bobbi said. “But high standards can be hard to live up to, for anyone, not just you. And Coulson catches everything anyone says or does. You’ll never get to relax. Can you imagine living with him day in and day out? Sharing meals and showers and a bed?”

Then she yelped, as Clint dropped the dresser on her toe in order to rub his hand over the back of his neck. 

“Clint!” she yelled, pushing at her end of the dresser.

He picked it up again quickly, and apologized, as she pulled her foot back. 

“Yes,” Clint responded to her earlier question, ignoring the way she’d collapsed onto the bed and was rubbing her toes and glaring. At least the wounded toe would keep her from noticing the blush that’d crept unaccountably up the back of his neck just then. “I can imagine it. That was what the mission prep was for.” 

He and Coulson had spent a lot of time going over the cover stories. Those were lovingly detailed: they’d met at a support group for vets, started dating, started staying over, and gotten married in Canada a little less than a year ago. Small ceremony. In the woods. Only close friends. A bonfire reception, dancing late into the night, the whole works. The junior agent who’d written their covers had, Clint thought, an unexpectedly romantic turn, or else was working out some kind of long-suppressed fantasy. 

Okay, so maybe Clint had thought more about marrying Coulson than living with him. Still, beds were just beds and showers were just hot water. All Clint had to do was act like a loving husband; that couldn’t be that hard, could it?

“Are you sure, Clint?” Bobbi asked him. “I mean, have you seen Coulson’s coffee habits?”

“He drinks like a pot and a half every morning, Bobbi,” Clint said. It was part of the Coulson Legend— the man was fastidious. He changed the coffee filter after it finished brewing every time, wiped out his mug, rinsed out the pot, the whole deal. “So he’s got a caffeine addiction, so does half of SHIELD. As long as I don’t accidentally buy decaf, I don’t see the big deal.” 

“You will,” Bobbi said darkly. “You will.” She swept down the stairs, limping slightly, and leaving Clint wondering what the hell she was on about. Unless--

Oh.

It wasn’t Coulson’s coffee habits she was worried about, was it? 

“I know how to use a mug when I need to!” Clint called after her. “I’m not gonna drink from the pot around him!” Much. Probably. “Jeez Bob, I’m not a moron!”

“Yeah right, Clint,” Bobbi hissed from the hallway. “But you are fucking impossible to live with, too.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Clint asked, bewildered.

“It means maybe you should’ve been thinking less about you living with Coulson, and more about him living with you,” she said, glaring. “And also? Next time you move your own damn dresser, mission or not.”

“Hey,” Clint called after her as she left, “could have been worse! We could have been putting together a Hemnes again!” 

Her answering laugh was bitter, and Clint sighed. To this day, he still held Ikea partly to blame for the failure of their relationship… but maybe Bobbi was right. He’d always known he was, uh, eccentric in his cleaning habits. And dishwashing habits. And cooking habits-- mostly the product of years in the circus and then as a mercenary. But was it really as bad as all that?

He probably was. Bobbi, after all, would know better than anyone.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “good thing I don’t want to be in a real relationship with Coulson.”

 

####

“Jesus, Coulson, what’s in this?” Jasper whined as he put the last box down.

Phil looked up from where he was still tangled in the half-built futon frame, and frowned.

“Music,” he said shortly. “Like it says on the box.”

“Way too fucking big to be CDs,” Jasper said, and tore into the box. “What’s that SHIELD code for-- what the hell?” 

“It’s code for ‘music,’ Jasper,” Phil said patiently. “And please be careful with that.”

“Phil… did you… did you bring your vinyl?” Jasper had an album in each hand and was staring at them like he thought they’d mutate into something less nonsensical at any moment.

“Part of it,” Phil told him, eyeing him closely. Would he be able to get out of the cage he’d built around himself in time to catch the discs if Jasper dropped them? More than likely not. “You’re the one who said we didn’t have the budget for everything SHIELD needed to furnish this place, and we’d better bring some stuff from home. Remember?”

“Yeah I don’t think college students carry around… I’m sorry, is this Lovesexy? Phil?”

Phil prided himself on his decades of service to SHIELD, that had taught him not to blush.

“Well that’s what you get when you’re trying to keep costs down, Jasper. I wasn’t going to go over the Director’s discretionary spending level just for Benny Goodman.”

“I guess,” Jasper frowned. “You saying you wouldn’t trust your own Benny on an op?”

“I’m saying I wouldn’t trust you moving it. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with Prince. Prince is timeless. And it adds verisimilitude— no one expects a G-man to listen to  _ I Melt With You _ on repeat.”

“No shit,” Jasper laughed, and went back to flipping through records, occasionally muttering incredulously.

Phil looked down at the metal tubes surrounding him and finally faced the fact that he wasn’t going to get the damned thing put together by himself. Should he ask Barton? It was a normal spousal activity, putting furniture together… together. Wasn’t it? And if Barton-- if Clint; he couldn’t afford to use the wrong last name, even in his head-- were there to help, maybe he could hold the back on its hinges correctly. Clint was good with his hands, Phil had noticed. And if he came to help, he’d need to get right up close to Phil, bend over and….

“Jasper,” Phil said, aware his voice was rough, “please stop manhandling my Prince and come over here. I need your help.”

“Phil,” Jasper said, eyeing him, “I’m not sure our relationship is up to putting furniture together.”

“Well it’s either you or Clint, and he’s still busy upsta--” Phil paused, as something thudded ominously on the other side of the ceiling. When, after a moment, he didn’t hear screaming, he continued. “-- upstairs.”

“You want to put furniture together with Barton?” Jasper asked him, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Man, Phil, no wonder no one wants to do these ops with you.”

“I always thought it was my sparkling personality,” Phil deadpanned, and handed Jasper a wrench. “And clearly not ‘no one.’After all, here we are.”

“Which begs the question,” Jasper told him, bending over and attacking the bolt that was currently half sticking out of its designated slot. His ass was not nearly as distracting as Clint’s would have been, but Phil still wasn’t pleased with its proximity to his face, and tried to move back. “What the hell does Fury have on Barton, that he agreed to this?”

“Oh come on, I’m not that bad,” Phil protested. 

Privately, however, he had to admit he’d asked himself that question more than once over the intervening weeks. Phil knew why  _ he _ was here-- the prospect of some dedicated time with the private collection of Dum-Dum Dugan and his dissertation was a significant bribe. And then there was the chance to cure himself of Clint Barton before he ended up doing something stupid— and to turn Clint Barton off, for good measure. Not that he’d seen any indication Clint Barton was even on— no. Not “on”. Clint wasn’t turned on— or into him, or up for it— and this was precisely why he needed to be getting Clint off… getting off Clint. Phil squeezed his eyes shut for a second and tried to clear his brain; Clint was hell on his prepositions.

“You’re exactly that bad, Phil,” Jasper said, shaking a screwdriver at him. “I mean, not for a day or two, but I had to live with you that week in El Segundo, and I know--”

“That was not at all my fault,” Phil told him seriously. “It was the rain.”

“Phil,” Jasper sighed, and sat down in the middle of the still-unbuilt futon, scattering aluminum tubing. “It wasn’t the rain. It was you being a jerk.”

“You really want to talk about this, Jasper?” Phil finally said, throwing down his hex wrench (which hadn’t actually been useful yet) and glaring. “Because if you want to talk about El Segundo, we can talk about El Segundo. We can talk about your unholy love for frijoles refritos in an apartment with the windows painted shut. Do you want to talk about El Segundo?”

“You know, I can always tell you’ve lost an argument when you bring up El Segundo,” Jasper sniped at him.

“I’m not the one who brought it up.”

“Fine. Fine, Phil, you wanna change the subject? Let’s talk about why you agreed to this assignment. It’s not exactly your usual style.”

“I’ve gone undercover plenty of times,” Phil objected, freeing the wrench from beneath Jasper’s ass and applying it to the nearest nut in need of tightening. 

“Yeah, usually with about 200% more potential for explosions or mass arrests. This is Level Four stuff, Phil. Fury’s back up plan was to send in some kids fresh out of the Academy. So what’s up? Is there an eyes-only thing here, or are you having some kind of mid-life crisis?”

Phil considered Jasper for a long moment. They'd been friends for years, ever since Phil had stopped being Jasper’s SO. They’d been through metric tons of shit together, even apart from El Segundo. Of all his friends, Jasper was most likely to hear him out. Phil opened his mouth.

“And don’t give me that BS about finishing your dissertation,” Jasper added.

“Not BS,” Phil said shortly, “ABD. And I’d like to be a Ph.D., that’s the point. If I don’t finish my dissertation soon I’m going to have to start over.”

“That’s really it,” Jasper said, so skeptically that Phil wondered if he’d been talking to Melinda and Andrew. He didn’t think they were out-of-work type friends, but then he didn’t make more than a minor habit of tracking his friends’ hangout habits.

“That’s really it,” Phil said, shrugging. “The opportunity came at the right time-- or Fury knew it’d sweeten the deal. I mean, the  _ Dugan papers _ , Jasper.” 

If Phil had thought that detail would convince Jasper, the way it had Phil, he was mistaken.

“Okay, right, I know you have a boner for that shit. But why do you even want to get your degree? You’re a field agent, Phil, a spy— not some elbow-patch professor. You should be out there making more history, not writing about it.”

“Fifty years from now when it’s released to the public?” Phil asked, and Jasper conceded the point with a shrug. 

It was actually the first time Phil had been asked the question. Melinda and Andrew had been more focused on the Clint angle-- he’d encouraged them to focus on the Clint angle, really-- and there weren’t a lot of other people who would have cared about Phil’s interests outside of SHIELD. Phil considered the several flash drives’ of notes and the dissertation itself, seven chapters and counting. It was on the obscure period at the end of World War II in which Peggy Carter, founder of SHIELD, had what Phil had called her “wilderness years.” It wasn’t like he could use half of what he’d researched for the dissertation-- not unless he wanted it to be published with as many black bars as lines of text. 

Phil could put it down to an understandable interest in the historical context of the agency he’d dedicated his life to— but Phil knew that wouldn’t satisfy Jasper. He was well aware that he hadn’t accumulated-- by fits and starts-- all of the credits needed for a doctorate in American history, plus a thesis advisor (one of several SHIELD Academy instructors who held a joint appointment at American University) by accident.

He’d spent years of his precious free time on the project, and even more time feeling guilty when it stalled out.

“I guess,” Phil said at last, “‘I’ve managed to get this far with it. And… and I’m not as young as I used to be. Eventually someone’s going to shove me behind a desk somewhere or make me administrate. Before that happens I want something outside of SHIELD that’s just mine— besides my cat.”

“You gave your cat to me,” Jasper reminded him, “after the fifth time cryptozoology had to cat-sit while you were in the field.”

“Yeah,” Phil sighed, “that’s my point.”

At least Rosie was happier, now-- and Jasper sent him pictures, every once in a while, of the two of them hanging out. Rosie stayed with Jasper’s aunt when Jasper was on ops. The cryptozoology team visited them sometimes. 

“So it  _ is _ a mid-life crisis,” Jasper said. “You know, most people would get a hobby. A real hobby. Or a sports team. Or a car. Or a girlfriend-- or boyfriend, situation depending.” 

Somehow, people always said it that way, too, as if one just walked into a store, threw a partner in the cart, and handed over their credit card.

“Jasper, I alienated my cat. How the hell am I supposed to live with an actual human?”

“Jeez, Phil, I said you should date, not propose. Just find someone to get you out of SHIELD on a regular basis. A night out, a night in-- you know.”

“You think I need to get laid?” Phil asked, frowning. “I do just fine with that, and you know it. Do you need outside confirmation now? Because I thought that the walls at the Hyatt were thin eno--”

“Oh god, no,” Jasper groaned, staring at him in horror. “That is not what I mean. Yes, I know, you have an active sex life. Trust me, I’ve seen your smug little smile too fucking often. But the alphabet agencies are not your little black book. Just for once, can you try dating instead of falling into bed with the nearest attractive spy?”

“Uh,” said a voice behind them, “I can come back later.”

“No, no, good timing,” Jasper said, because Jasper was an asshole of long standing. 

Phil sighed and turned around. Clint was standing behind him, all rumpled and worn-looking from their hours of moving “house,” and he was rubbing a hand over the back of his neck in what Phil had come to realize was a nervous gesture. Which was just further proof Phil spent too much time watching Clint; he had cataloged most of the man’s movements. Well, he could glut himself on it now, and hopefully get sick of it. 

Just at the moment, he was impatient for that glutting to start-- Clint’s bicep looked far too edible.

“Hey,” Phil said, to distract himself from the musculature on display, “you wanna come help with the futon?”

“Are you kidding me?” Clint snorted. “I may suck at relationships, Phil, but even I know better than to try and put together furniture with my partner. Naw. Bobbi’s starving, so I’m gonna go grab pizza. Pretty sure it’s traditional. Sitwell, you like olives?”

Jasper gave Clint a thumbs-up on the olives, then leaned backwards, cracking his spine with a groan.

“Get me and Morse something portable,” he said. “I think we’ve done as much as we can stand. And we’re flying commercial so we’ve got to actually get to the airport on time.”

“I can do that,” Clint told him, opening the door. “I’ll be back in a jiff. See ya, Sitwell. Snookums.” 

He winked at Phil as he sauntered out.

“Snookums?” Phil asked, as Jasper snickered himself sick among the fallen futon parts.

 

####

“Hey Coulson,” Clint asked later, as he leaned back against the arm of the futon to give himself a better angle for catching all the cheese dripping from his pizza, “what do grad students usually use as curtains?”

Clint had returned with pizza, calzones, and pop just as Jasper and Agent Morse were getting ready to leave. He’d handed over the calzones, accepted Jasper’s thanks and Morse’s kiss on the cheek with equanimity. He appeared to forget about them both as soon as they were out the door, however, in favor of leaning across the pizza box to kiss Phil himself on the cheek by way of greeting.

Phil wished he could have claimed he hadn’t frozen. Or blushed. He knew Clint’s move wasn’t as unselfconscious as it appeared-- the window in front of them was tall, broad, and completely open to the world. Anyone outside would see them as neatly framed as a sitcom. Everything Clint had been doing this evening— including draping his legs over Phil’s lap so that he could lounge, like he was at the moment— was just aimed at establishing their cover.

Now, Phil glanced over at that big, open window again, and sighed. He needed to get his head into the game, and he might as well start now.

“’Hey, Phil,’” he corrected Clint. “Unless you want to be all Victorian about it, in which case it still wouldn’t be ‘Hey, Coulson,’ it would be ‘Hey, Mr. Moore.’”

Clint choked, then snorted pizza grease and cola in a fine fizz over the back of the futon. The frame creaked ominously. Phil braced Clint’s feet with his forearm to keep him from overbalancing backwards. He was leaning against Jasper’s side of the futon, and if it collapsed on them, Phil was going to make sure Jasper never knew a moment of peace. 

“Clint,” he sighed, when he was sure Clint had stopped convulsing. Clint looked up at him with eyes half sheepish and all wary, dark in the low pink light. “Can you hand me a napkin?” Phil finished, with something like resignation.

Clint did; sitting up to grab the paper towel and removing his feet from Phil’s lap, then collapsing again with his shoulders resting against Phil’s. It was all of a sad, sorry piece with the rest of the evening; Clint had apparently decided that being a good spouse meant finding Phil’s lame jokes funny, invading Phil’s personal space as casually as Phil’s cat had used to do, and peppering Phil with questions like Phil was some kind of walking encyclopedia.

In other words, he was hitting hot buttons Phil hadn’t even known he’d had. In fact, Clint was doing a very good job, Phil thought ruefully, of acting like someone Phillip Moore would be head over heels in love with-- so good a job that even the greasy fingerprints in the futon and on Phil’s jeans seemed more endearing than sloppy. A minor, inconvenient side-effect of the fact that he had Clint Barton-- Clint Ford, pardon-- pressed up against him. 

Phil could not wait for the novelty to wear off; for the extraneous garlic oil and lack of personal space to overwhelm this embarrassing tenderness he was trying-- and failing-- to swallow down.

He leaned over to kiss sauce off Clint’s dimple, and got a snort in response. Their cover had better be considered rock solid after this Phil sighed to himself, and tried to forget how warm and rough Clint’s cheek had been.

“Hey, Mr. Moore,” Clint said finally, “you never answered the question.”

“You’re not really going to keep calling me that, are you?”

“Yeah I am. Curtains. Grad student. What kind? Because this--” Clint gestured at the window-- “is gonna get inconvenient quickly. I don’t wanna have to bother with pants in the morning in my own house, you know?”

“Yes, I do” Phil said, cursing inwardly— a pantsless Clint was going to do terrible things to his resolve. “Um, I don’t think there’s any one curtain regarded as standard for grad students per se, but we’ve got a limited budget.” He frowned, trying to remember what students had done in the misty past when he was getting his BA. “Thrift shop?”

“Oh, if that’s all,” Clint said, “I can thrift the hell out of some kind of window dressing. Bobs just made it seem like it had to be sheets. It seemed weird to me-- but she’s been to college, I haven’t.”

Bobbi Morse had done her advanced degrees, like Phil had, through the SHIELD Academy’s connections with various universities, and probably knew as little about regular graduate student life as he did, but Phil refrained from pointing this out. 

“I think we can manage to justify a curtain or two,” he said instead. “If that’s what breaks our cover, I’ll eat the cactus that our neighbor over there seems to think is hiding his— um. Activities. My god, I didn’t think it bent that far.”

Clint tilted his head, scrutinizing their across-the-way neighbor, and finally said

“Oh, that’s nothing. I used to do that all the time— you should see how far it can go once you’ve loosened it. But if we can get real curtains, lets. I don’t wanna be the primetime special, like him. Leave a little mystery, right?”

“Amen,” Phil said, and tore his eyes away from the window, applying himself to his dinner. 

“Do you feel like we’re under-briefed for this mission?” Clint sighed after a brief, pizza-filled silence.

“No I-- do you need more on the mission parameters?” Phil asked, his mind skittering back to the briefing with Fury, then their hours with Jasper. Clint hadn’t seemed lost, but Clint was good at hiding when he felt out of his depth, trusting himself to fake it till he made it. Over their missions together, Phil had learned to casually ask questions he already knew the answer to, or stay behind so Clint could pick his brain in a private setting. He’d forgotten to do that this time, too caught up in calculating the parameters for his mission to cure himself of Clint. Dammit, he should have been paying more attention--

“Naw,” Clint shrugged, not noticing Phil deflate with relief, “that part’s fine; go in, make friendly with the kids, pretend I wanna dig up ancient civilizations for a living, figure out where the hell Professor Magnos got to. Or at least, find out if she dug up something a little more hinky than some old warrior dudes and it came back here.”

“Then what’s your worry?”

Clint shifted a little on the futon, and picked nervously at the tab to his pop can. Phil made himself wait, trying to look as curious and non-judgmental as possible. 

“I think I remember getting my GED somewhere in there in my early days at SHIELD,” Clint said after a little, “I’m pretty sure they insisted on it. With all the damn tactics classes and international relations and whatever they shoved at me, eventually I figured out how to take a test. But this? I’ve never… I’ve never been on a campus, never been a student. I’m pretty sure I’d get along better in, like, Tashkent.”

Phil felt things come into focus, and his heart gave a traitorous little thump. Good lord, in Clint’s place, he’d have been petrified. Clint was better at taking things on the fly than nearly any agent he’d ever met, but he wasn’t superhuman. Of course he felt anxious; and now Phil felt even more like shit for not realizing it.

“We’re supposed to be a little clueless,” he replied. “Two ex-mil gays at least a decade older than their peers? It adds to the verisimilitude of the thing.”

“Well, I’m doing great at feeling clueless,” Clint was frowning down at his sausage and two-olive, and Phil felt the outrageous urge to reach over and stroke his face until the lines disappeared.

“From my point of view,” he said, taking refuge in words instead, “you’re doing just fine so far. Hell, you didn’t even ask for hardship pay for moving that barge Jasper called a dresser.”

Clint snorted, and Phil felt a little encouraged by that.

“Well, it’s not like that’s in the budget,” he said.

“And that’s another point,” Phil continued. “You’re the primary, I’m just here to back you up. And I agree with Fury that it’s best to have you on this. You’re used to operating independently. Much better than someone with a BA and a tendency to call back to base for instructions on how to take a shit. Anyway, if it helps, I’m not exactly in my element here, either.”

Clint looked over at him like he’d just made an off-color joke about an octopus to a Lithuanian diplomat’s wife. (Lest that comparison seem overly-specific, Phil had the incident burned into his memory. It hadn’t been him. It had been Felix Blake. For the record.) 

“Really,” Phil told him.

“Yeah right,” Clint said at last, snuggling down into the futon’s deep back and putting his feet on the coffee table, perilously close to the open pizza box, “you’re full of shit. Agent C-- Mr. Moore’s never out of his element. Elements are out of Mr. Moore.”

He folded a square of pizza in half and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth at once, evidently, if obscurely, comforted. 

Phil felt his heart turn over, and watched Clint in despair. 

The disillusionment could start any time now. 

 

####

Clint came out of the bathroom clean and exhausted, and not really paying much attention to anything except collapsing before his muscles all stiffened on him. He padded over the threadbare shag carpeting towards the bed, wiping down his hearing aids as he went and rolling them between the pads of his fingers. The noise of the house-- the fwip of the ceiling fan in the hall, the rush of the toilet tank filling, Phil muttering as he got ready for bed-- had largely faded into hum, and he was trying to decide if the faint whine was some piece of electronic equipment or just his ears. 

As he reached the edge of the bed, Clint reached out for his dry box to drop his aids in-- only to find it gone, and a c-pap machine in its place, mask and hose set neatly on top of its reservoir. (He’d first encountered one on his last op as a mercenary, when he’d ended up choking a gun runner out with the air hose of his own machine. It’d been absurd and undignified in equal measure, and Clint’d decided then and there he was through being a lone wolf.) 

Tired as he was, Clint nearly thought it was the world’s most unsubtle hint about his own breathing— and god knew he was close enough to deaf he’d never hear himself if he snored.

And then a likelier scenario presented itself to him.

“What the hell?” he asked, looking up, “Phil?” 

Phil was standing at the foot of the bed, undressed except for boxers and an undershirt, blinking back at him. 

“Where’d my box go?” Clint asked.

Wordlessly, Phil pointed to the other side of the bed, the side close to the alcove, where Clint’s travel alarm clock and dry box now sat. 

“Ineedisid--ed,” Phil explained, pointing to the side of the bed he’d stolen, and turning away from Clint as he did.

“You need to look at me when you talk please,” Clint said, knowing he was a little loud, and relishing Phil’s slow blink, his double take at Clint’s hands then at Clint.

It wasn’t like it wasn’t in his files. You didn’t keep shit like serious hearing loss from the CO in the field. But Clint supposed that it was different ordering a guy around on an op when you could basically forget his comms were also his actual hearing aids, versus being confronted with the same guy sans aids. Mostly, Clint just slept in the damn things in the field and in safe houses, but that was a short term solution. He couldn’t very well do it here. 

Yeah, they’d definitely under-briefed parts of this mission, he thought. This was what happened with the low-stakes ones sometimes. Well, at least Phil could be counted on to be cool about it. He always had been before.

Or, apparently, Phil could blush horribly, swallow it down, and look like he’d just accidentally stepped on Clint’s toe.

“Clint, I’m sorry,” he said, now turned fully towards Clint and enunciating with enviable precision. “I really should have known. How well can you hear me?”

“Just fine now,” Clint told him, only exaggerating a little. “Seriously, Phil, don’t worry about it.”

Phil nodded, and failed to look any less chagrined. Clint fought down the urge to boggle, and tried to drag them back to the matter at hand.

“It’s just, I’d really prefer this side of the bed, if you don’t mind. I had dibs. The other side has a three-prong, too, so your machine should be okay there.”

And then it was his turn to blush, because calling dibs on double beds was probably not great protocol for handling either spouses or senior agents.

Still— he  _ had.  _ And it was the first time he’d seen Phil disregard something like that.

Phil glanced down at the bed again, frowning. Clint took the opportunity to glance down at Phil, and the sheer breadth of the thighs he’d been hiding under those tailored suits. It rapidly became hard to look away, so he nearly missed what Phil was saying.

“-- helps to be close to the door, but if you really need to, we can swap. I don’t want to, um, complicate matters for you.” Phil waved vaguely at Clint’s hand, at his aids still clutched in it.

Clint nearly said yes, because, again, dibs. But something in the way Phil sounded made him pause. It  _ wasn’t _ okay, clearly it wasn’t okay; Phil was smoothing over his face in a way Clint remembered came right before  _ it’s okay, Plan G is a good plan too _ , on ops. 

In Clint’s defense, it only took him so long translate  _ helps to be close to the door _ into  _ can’t sleep if he doesn’t have a clear exit _ because it had never somehow occurred to him that the unflappable Agent Coulson might get fucked up in the head like any normal SHIELD agent. 

Whereas Clint just preferred having his dominant hand free— it wasn’t like he was gonna hear the intruders coming through the door anyway. Hell, if anything, Clint preferred to position himself where there was a nice reflective surface, and when they got the laptop set up in the alcove the screen could provide that for him. 

Clint lifted his free hand to drag it over his face. This was stupid, this was a bad idea, how were they ever gonna convince anyone they were married if they couldn’t even pick out sides of the bed? Anyway, between his hearing and Phil’s sleep mask, they were both probably screwed if someone tried to ambush them at night, no matter who slept where. This wasn’t a safehouse, and they weren’t going to be able to afford sleeping, or living, as if it were, boots on and tension high. At least, Clint hoped not, because that got old real fast. 

Meanwhile, they still had sleeping arrangements to settle.

“Well, now I feel like an asshole,” Clint said at last. “Okay, you take the side closest the door.”

“No, I can--” 

“Phil. No.” Clint felt bone-deep tired, late hour or the furniture moving or just the pinpoint control Clint’d had to maintain all night, cuddling up to Phil, all catching up to him. “I’m taking the other side of the bed, and that’s final.”

He brushed past Phil, careful neither to look down at what else Phil had been hiding under his pants, nor to catch his eye as he went. Instead, he turned his back on Phil and whatever protest he might be trying to make, dropped his aids in the box, and stripped off his shirt.

When he rolled under the covers, he found the bed still empty. Phil was still standing, staring down at him, from the other side. 

“C’mon, Mr. Moore,” Clint said, trying to break the thread of tension that had somehow wormed its way between them, “this bed’s not going to sleep itself.”

Crap. Could he blame that idiocy on his hearing aids being out?

Phil’s face screwed up, and he dropped his head. His shoulders heaved once, twice, and Clint finally realized he was fighting back laughter. 

“No,” Phil said, raising his face to Clint’s, “that it’s not.” 

He stripped off his own shirt and got into bed, leaving Clint stunned and breathless. He wasn’t sure which was worse; the sudden reveal of Phil’s broad and freckled chest with its thicket of chest hair, or the way that, for a moment, Phil’s face had just shone.

Clint turned off his light quickly and settled down with his back to Phil, trying to pull his feet and ass away from Phil on the full bed without making it obvious that he didn’t want them to touch. Thank heavens for the sheet over the window-- Clint didn’t think he could take having to cuddle with Phil at the moment; he was busily having a minor panic attack.

The memory of Phil’s lips on his cheek earlier, as he’d kissed sauce off it, kept bobbing up in his brain, all mixed up with his blush when he’d realized he was making it hard for Clint to hear him, and the calm way he’d laid out his own worries about the op earlier in the evening. They weren’t even a full day in, and Clint was already beginning to realize that he had miscalculated badly. The prospect of going undercover with Agent Coulson was one thing-- but he wasn’t undercover with Coulson. He was undercover with Phillip Moore. And Clint hadn’t bargained on Phil.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for next chapter, featuring: Clint's posterior, daylily gazing, atlatl attacks, and Phil's version of the Holy Grail.
> 
> Chapter Two will post sometime between September 29 and October 1.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Phil reconnoiter their surroundings, Phil makes friends, and Clint influences people... with his ass(ets).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No grad students were harmed in the making of this chapter.

When Phil came downstairs the morning sun was beaming through the slats of the wood screen that separated the stairs from the rest of the apartment.  He padded down the stairs through bars of light and shadow, feeling satisfied with himself. Clint had left wet towels draped over the toilet seat and crumpled on the bathroom floor, and Phil had not found it even a little bit endearing. It was a wonderful thing. 

Phil was halfway across the living room before he looked up, and stopped so short he nearly tripped over the coffee table. 

Over by the kitchenette, a half moon was rising over Clint’s boxers. The sun shone equally on it and over the entire bare expanse of Clint’s back and shoulders. Any progress towards disillusionment that Phil had thought he’d made reversed itself in an instant. 

“Hey,” Clint said, and straightened up in a welcoming fashion as Phil padded over to the open counter. He’d been bent over the counter reading from a file and sipping coffee, swaying his ass-- which was the only part of him sporting any kind of clothing-- to some internal beat. There was a small bowl of hard-boiled eggs on the counter next to him, along with a neat little pile of shells. 

“Good morning,” Phil said, giving him a conjugal peck on the cheek and coming away tasting shaving cream. “You were remembering we’re currently curtainless?”

“That’s the point, Phil,” Clint beamed, darting a glance behind his behind to the broad window. “Want to encourage our new neighbors to come say hello, ya know? That way we can meet ‘em without looking like we’re trying.”

Phil privately suspected there must be ways to casually meet one’s neighbors that involved pants, but somehow, nothing immediately came to mind— or if it did it was quickly driven off by the sunlight glinting off Clint’s nipples. 

“With that kind of encouragement, we’ll be the most popular house on the block. Please have  _ some _ consideration for my tender sensibilities,” Phil said, hoping it came out more teasing than desperate, and went to pour himself coffee.

“Yes dear,” Clint said, but not like he planned on actually doing anything about it. 

He watched Phil pass back and forth to the coffee pot more closely than Phil had expected. Phil’d made coffee while Clint showered largely out of habit; at home alone, it meant he could go from hot shower to hot caffeine with very little time in between. Some mornings, the smell of coffee perking was the only thing that kept him from falling over and rolling underneath his bed, never to be found.

But today he could have had that without the effort because Clint was here, and could have made coffee  _ for _ him, leaving Phil with precious extra minutes in bed. Was that why he was frowning? Did he think that Phil couldn’t trust him to make coffee the right way? Not that there was any one right way… preferred way maybe… and maybe that was it, maybe Clint wasn’t the kind of person who preferred his coffee strong enough to stand a spoon upright and maybe he was pissed off that Phil had beaten him to the pot?

At SHIELD, agents had been known to hold decades-long grudges over things like that; especially the analysts. But Phil’d never thought Agent Barton had cared about SHIELD’s notoriously byzantine coffee-pot politics, it was one of his many too-endearing qualities. So maybe Phil was way overthinking the whole coffee thing and he needed to stop worrying and just drink some. 

He looked down at his mug, then up at Clint, who was no longer looking concerned. Instead, he was eating an egg in a contemplative and unexpectedly suggestive manner. Phil sighed, and decided that if Clint  _ was _ offended by Phil’s preemptive coffee-making, it all the better in the end.

“You check the weather?” he asked, as he turned to rummage in the bread box. It was a euphemism; Clint and Phil were both supposed to check in every morning by texting “WEATHER” to a dummy number. They couldn’t afford anyone monitoring them 24-7, but failure to check in before noon would alert Jasper— as would, more quickly, hitting the panic button that lived underneath the counter with the coffee machine. At that point, Jasper could find them using the tracking devices built into their wedding rings. 

“Yeah, and it says 85 degrees and sunny,” Clint said, around a mouthful of egg, and then “make me toast too?” Like he hadn’t had all that time before Phil got downstairs to do it himself. 

Phil paused, frowning at the toaster, a piece of raisin bread dangling from his fingers.

“... please?” Clint amended.

Well… they  _ were _ curtainless. It wouldn’t do to be seen looking like a jerk to his nearly-naked husband.

“Sure,” Phil said, and popped the bread in. He sat staring at the toaster and sipping coffee for more than a minute until he realized the conversation had lagged. He cast about for a topic, and finally settled on “So… what’re you reading?”

“Class schedule,” Clint replied. “Think I’m gonna head to admissions today.”

“Classes don’t start for a week though.”

“I know. But I wanna make sure everything’s all set up.”

“Jasper took care of all that; you’re registered as of two months ago.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Phil heard the frown in Clint’s voice. “I just… I just wanna double-check.”

“Oh.” The toaster was taking forever; Phil fiddled with the darkness setting. 

Right; Clint wasn’t used to this. Hell,  _ he _ wasn’t used to this anymore. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to do some recon of his own. Poke his head in the history offices; stop by graduate student services, scout the library…. “It’s a good plan,” he said, using his Agent voice to reinforce it. “You’re heading out this morning?”

“After breakfast.”

Speaking of breakfast, the toast had popped-- and blackened, sadly. Phil set it aside and guiltily dialed back the toaster before putting in the second set of slices.

“... thought I’d introduce myself around,” Clint was saying when Phil dragged his attention away from the state of the bread, “see if anyone’s in their offices today. If I can meet the susp-- uh, professors-- now it’ll give me a better angle to brush up on their briefing notes. Figure I can ask around for Professor Magnos or something. Say I’d talked to her about coming here, wanted to say hi.”

“You sure that wouldn’t tip your hand too soon?” Phil asked, concentrating mostly on the marmalade, “we need you to keep a low profile in case someone there is involved in her disappearance.”

“Yeah but there’s letters from me in her files and her email now, if anyone goes back to look-- I mean, if they’re really that paranoid.  If I wait too long to mention it, it’s just gonna look weirder, you know? I’d prefer to do the big dumb cute guy act,” Clint said, and Phil glanced over to find him making a big dumb cute face, somewhat like a human golden retriever. 

“Well it’s a good act,” Phil admitted, and hoped Clint hadn’t noticed how hard he’d just swallowed. Anyway, Clint was supposed to be the lead on this op, so what the hell was Phil doing undermining him? “Fine. I trust you.” 

He turned back to the toaster just in time for the second pop. This set of toast had come out golden and Phil set about buttering it with satisfaction.

“In fact,” he mused, “I think I’ll get myself set up today, too: introduce myself to the history faculty, get something on the board about tutoring services, then see about getting access to the Dugan papers. No time like the present to get started.”

“Course not,” Clint said, something warm leaking into his voice, “Phillip Moore would be all over those papers first chance he got. Need to stay in character.”

“Indeed we do,” Phil said, wondering if he was being teased and feeling himself bristle. “Anyway, the catalog didn’t say how many of them were on microfiche, and there’s supposed to be online access for students for some of the later papers-- they’re not available to the public yet; something about the metadata not being tagged… which is probably more information than you needed. But I want to see how much work I can plausibly do from here, so I have an excuse to be out of the office if you need me watching your back.”

“Good idea; have fun,” Clint said, and Phil, who had been staring down at the two plates of toast because he  _ knew _ he was completely see-through in his enthusiasm about his dissertation, looked up to meet his eyes. He seemed completely sincere-- and that wasn’t just his puppy-face.

Phil set toast in front of them both, giving Clint the lighter set, then bit into his own. Hopefully Clint would set Phil’s chagrin down to the blackened state of his breakfast, rather than his embarassment at having gotten defensive for no reason. 

Clint shoved the much-diminished bowl of eggs at him, watching him expectantly until he accepted one.

“It’s going to be a busy day,” Phil said when he finished chewing. “Probably the start of a lot of them.”

“Yeah I figure,” Clint frowned. “And that’s even without the maybe-084 and the disappearing Professor. Ah well,” he grabbed his remaining toast and stood, stretching elaborately. “I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Moore?”

Clint winked, and Phil had to bite his lip to hold back something horrifyingly like a giggle. He wasn’t sure what his face looked like, but it was enough to make Clint grin— and if Clint planned on introducing himself around the anthropology faculty that way this op was going to be over quickly. Phil couldn’t imagine anyone Clint couldn’t extract secrets from with that smile.

Then he frowned, his attention drawn to the other side of the picture window, where a young lady was standing in the daylilies, staring at Clint’s ass. Phil glared at her until she finally noticed him, at which point she collected her dropped jaw and wandered sheepishly away.

“I’m also going to stop at Target and buy us curtains,” he said decisively. “Thick ones.”

Fuck thrift shops anyway.

####

Clint clutched the strap of his backpack and hoped it wasn’t immediately obvious to the passers-by how tight his grip was. It had taken him twice as long as planned to find the building that housed the Admissions office and he was starting to believe it was either made up, or existed in a parallel universe he hadn’t found a portal to yet. 

The campus was the size of some towns he’d been through, it was laid out like someone had gotten drunk and thrown darts at a map to determine building sites, and even in the middle of summer, the main quad was distressingly full of people. The main quad was nearly on the other side of campus from their home, and it had been at least a ten minute walk, through what appeared to be most of campus. He’d wandered past big old red brick buildings clustered in the corner of campus nearest the river, all the way to the modern monstrosities with their concrete sides and bleak windows that lined the main streets.  Clint had tried for a while to look like he knew what he was doing there and where he was going, the way he did anywhere foreign, but he was sure he just looked constipated.

Finally, remembering Phil’s advice that they were supposed to be a little clueless, he gave in and asked a native. 

“Admissions?” the kid he’d asked repeated, squinting at Clint like he was a special kind of slow. “You’re standing on it.” Clint looked down at the swath of well-manicured sod they were standing on, and blinked. 

“I’m what?” he asked.

The kid sighed, rolled his eyes, and pointed at a rail fence lining the far edge of the hill. 

“There?” Clint asked, but he was too late— the kid was already wandering off in the other direction, tugging up a pair of sagging skinny jeans. Clint watched him go and decided it was a good thing no one was trying to make him look like a normal undergrad. Even at 19 he didn’t think he’d looked 19— and he was pretty sure those jeans wouldn’t fit halfway up his thighs.

Clint sighed and walked in the direction the kid had indicated, but all he saw when he looked over the rail was a sharp drop to a brick patio— a patio onto which someone was emerging from right beneath Clint. For a moment, Clint thought maybe it was a dimensional portal after all, before the real explanation occurred to him: the Admissions office was half-buried in a hill for some arcane reason, and he’d just wandered over to the front door via the roof. 

Clint backed off the hill, muttering about proper signage and keeping important administrative functions in concrete bunkers, and approached again from the path and patio.

From the inside, it became apparent that the Admissions building was housed less in a concrete bunker and more in an underground lair-- a lair with a really great set of skylights, all covered in ivy, but a lair nonetheless. Clint refused to consider the implications of that. (That was a complete lie-- Clint managed to wonder about the electricity bill, flooding, and riot control, in that order, by the time the elevator had made its way to the bottom of the five-story shaft.)

Student Services for the College of Liberal Arts was on the bottommost of the five floors (Student Finance was on top; Clint assumed because the university actually cared whether it flooded out or not.) The door to Student Services was set just off a triangular foyer tiled in a particularly intense shade of institutional orange, and four kind of frazzled-looking undergrads looked up from their seats as Clint entered. 

“Hi,” he told the somewhat-older student who was slumped at the front desk, steadfastly ignoring everyone in the waiting room. “I need to see my counselor?” 

“WaitoverthereI’ll…” the kid’s eyes had been rising during their mumble, and finally landed on Clint’s smile. They blinked. Clint amped the grin up and leaned forward a little, letting his biceps bulge as he rested his elbows on the counter. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll just ring….” 

Two minutes later, Clint was walking back into a warren of cubes and little airless offices, with five pairs of eyes following his departure. He tried to tell himself it was just part of the job-- he’d lost track of how many times he’d used his assets to gain access (ahem). It was just that the eyes glued to his backside were awfully  _ young _ . 

And holy crap did that make Clint feel like a dirty old man.

Although maybe he shouldn’t feel so much like he was taking advantage— odds were good that every single one of them had more formal schooling that Clint did. 

What the hell had Fury been thinking, assigning him? What did he even think he was  _ doing  _ here? 

“You’re meeting your counselor,” Clint reminded himself in a mumble, “so stop whining and get going.” 

He pulled up the strap on his backpack, took a deep breath, and kept going deeper into the bowels of Student Services.

####

Finding Professor Drake’s office, and a secretary to unlock it, were Phil’s mission for the morning, and for a while he thought he was going to have to declare it a failure. Finding Gillette Hall itself had been easy; it was exactly where the campus map had said it would be, in a nest of nearly-identical colonnaded granite buildings that clustered at one end of the main quad, the kind that signaled Serious Learning and Classical Values were taught within. 

Classical values might be somewhere within the building, but after a half-hour of searching, Phil had been unconvinced the history department actually was, despite the fact that several signs told him otherwise. He had nearly given up before he’d taken a wrong turn, wandered past the janitor’s closet, and into a two-story alcove that had been mostly walled-in at some point. Shelves and two offices lined the balcony, and a few other offices lurked in the shadows beneath it, along with a large desk holding a small secretary. She’d looked up from her cross-stitch at Phil’s approach, and gave him a vaguely concerned smile. Phil supposed she didn’t see new faces every day— or semester, perhaps— and had introduced himself, and his mission: to say hello to the man who had supposedly invited him to the university, promising to advise him on his thesis after his old counselor had retired. 

(Which she hadn’t— well, she hadn’t retired from academia. She  _ had _ retired from the CIA a decade previously, and Phil thought Fury might actually have colluded with her in giving Phil this chance to finish his dissertation.) 

The secretary had narrowed her eyes, informed him that Professor Drake had retired, and only unbent a little after looking Phillip Moore up in the campus directory and finding out that he did, actually, exist, was, in fact, and ABD, and that he did even have Drake listed as his counselor. A confused and helpless look on Phil’s part finally got her to emerge from her fortifications and lead him through a windowless door, down half a set of steps, around a corner, and into the lair that Drake had apparently called an office, and which was set aside for Phil’s use. Despite the fact that Drake had been on emeritus status for years and only used his office on graduation day, homecoming, faculty banquets, and random naps about once a quarter, it was stuffed with books to the point where Phil wasn’t sure he could make room on the desk for a laptop. 

“Well that’s…” Phil started. The departmental secretary- Phyl, her name was, and that wasn’t going to get at all confusing-- shrugged. 

“He likes it this way,” she said, “it’s like a nest.”

“No one else needs this office?” Phil poked idly at one of the stacks of paper, unsurprised to find some of it had come off a dot matrix printer. 

“Oh probably,” Phyl sighed, “but they’re just adjuncts, so they don’t count. He still brings in enough tuition dollars and alumni donations that he can keep the place till he dies.” She included Phil in the tuition dollars being brought in with a toss of her head. “Where’d you meet him?” 

“American U, ages ago now,” Phil said, and began to move papers off the desk chair-- the leather desk chair. Good heavens. Drake must have some serious pull. “He was interested enough at the time.” 

“Oh sure,” Phyl said, and gave him a not unsympathetic look. “He always had a thing for Peggy Carter. That’s your dissertation, right?”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, and looked around. “Am I ever going to even  _ see _ him?” he asked, trying for just the right note of subdued despair. 

“He’ll be around when you need to defend, I guess,” Phyl assured him. “But you’ll need to send your dissertation in the mail. Back when he was still here he used to have me print out all his emails. He’d hand write the responses for me to type.”

“Wow,” Phil said, hoping that covered it, and trying not to feel increasingly out of place. SHIELD harbored some real dinosaurs, like any large organization, but you either learned a minimal amount of tech or you got eaten by the HR department and shunted off to… well, off to teach at the SHIELD Academies. Even there, though, he doubted this state of affairs would have been allowed.

“He’s usually here once a month for faculty gatherings, just to have someone to talk to,” Phyl added. “He’s… not much for calendars or appointments.”

Phil let a little rueful smile at that creep out. Thank god Jasper had decided on a faked set of snail mail letters between him and Drake. His attention to detail was consistently amazing. And no wonder Jasper was using him as Phil’s sponsor— he never showed his face and he never got questioned. Phil should be able to wander in and out of the department pretty much with impunity. Well— as long as he was able to get Phyl on his side. She still seemed stand-offish, and he briefly wished he could rely on his arms and his ass the way Clint could. (That wasn’t fair— Clint’s charms were legion. But the ass did get him in the door, so to speak.)

“So, what’re you writing about Peggy Carter,” Phyl asked, while Phil was still considering. She was still in the doorway, watching him. “Her and Steve Rogers? Or are you one of the SHIELD revisionists?”

Phil winced.

“Neither, I hope,” he said. “I’ve been studying the period after Rogers died and before SHIELD-- late war years, SSR, you know, her--”

“Wilderness years,” Phyl finished for him, with a certain amount of relish. Phil turned, to find her eyes gleaming. “That’s why the Dugan papers, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Phil said. “American has a decent collection— and obviously access to SHIELD and the Smithsonian’s archives. But a lot of those are secondary sources if not tertiary. I want a shot at Director Carter as her friends knew her.”

Phyl nodded thoughtfully, then glanced behind her, making sure the stairwell was clear— though why anyone in their right mind would be in it, Phil didn’t know.

“Anyone tell you how you can request after-hours access to the archives?” she whispered.

Phil grinned. Well, she’d spent all those years answering Drake’s emails for him, he realized. What a wonderful thing.

“No,” he said, and gave her his best Agent Coulson Is Your Friend smirk, “but if you want to tell me over coffee, I’m not opposed.”

 

####

The name holder outside the counselor’s office had a post-it stuck on it, with the name “Georgia Spelvin Shaw” scrawled in fading black sharpie. Clint knocked, then poked his head in the door.

His first wild thought was that he’d walked into a miniature grotto or the grungy back chapel of a cathedral and what he was seeing was a stained glass window of a wild-haired woman, bathed in green light. His second thought was that no, it was just that the architect had for some reason decided to provide windows five stories down by virtue of a weird concrete trench. Nature had taken its damp and algae-ridden course with the glass panes, making the room look like a particularly badly-filtered aquarium. It had to be a depressing place to work, Clint thought.

The counselor looked like she was used to subterranean life, though; she blinked up at Clint behind huge coke-bottle glasses and opened her mouth twice before gesturing at him to sit down. It didn’t make him feel really confident about the meeting to come, and neither did her mumbled confession that she was still looking for his file-- she’d only just started two weeks ago-- please excuse the clutter.

He felt like apologizing to her, on the off-chance that Sitwell or his junior SHIELD minions had misplaced the file while breaking in and planting it. When she found it filed under “C” for “Clint” not “F” for “Ford” he was nearly certain that was the case. Sitwell  _ probably _ had some brilliant reason for doing it— though there was an off-chance one of the SHIELD minions had done it by mistake.Their enthusiasm had sometimes outweighed their competence. In which case, Clint probably needed to remember it so he could include it in the debrief, whenever the hell that happened.

Also, Clint was lucky it had taken Shaw— if that was actually her and not just a random note on the door— so long to rearrange her file cabinet, because he needed to pull his head back into the game and not worry about the eventual paperwork.

As Clint had that thought, Shaw finally got settled, blinked down at Clint’s open file, then blinked up at him— and said nothing.

Clint closed his eyes for just a moment, in appreciation of the supreme surreality of the situation.

“So,” he said, “my classes.”

“Yes,” she nodded, and squinted down at the paper. “Yes. Your classes. Um.” 

She shoved the file at Clint, who took it awkwardly. Transcripts slipped out to land on his lap, and when he tried to put them back in, several other papers slipped out, including an application hand-written in purple ink. Thanks again, Sitwell. Or no, that was Bobbi’s work, she was the only one who could forge his handwriting that well. Great. 

“I… don’t think my schedule’s in here?” Clint said after he’d flipped through a few times, poking the application and the letters of recommendation back into place. He handed it back to her, and she blinked down at the creased letter on top of it. She did a  _ hell  _ of a lot of blinking-- maybe she really was turning into an amphibian. “I signed up online?”

“Great, so you know your classes already,” she said, seeming weirdly relieved, like that settled the matter. She reached over to grab the file from him.

Clint pulled the file back and clutched it, hard. He saw her eyebrows rise, and tried not to grimace. Just because he was freaked out about passing as student didn’t mean he needed to freak her out, too. 

“Look,” Clint said, trying for friendly, “I’m freakin’ old, right? I mean, for a college student.”

“Well, I wouldn’t--” here she faltered, and Clint waited for her to find a polite way to say yes. She trailed off mumbling about nontraditional students and learning being a lifelong process and never being too old and variety of experience.

“Yeah I appreciate that and all, I just….” Clint took a deep breath and gave her a smile he hoped came off as nervous rather than frustrated. “The thing is, I came here mostly ‘cause Phil-- my husband-- wanted to get his hands on some musty old papers for his research, right? It’s not like I did some kind of college tour or anything. So I didn’t really pay a lot of attention when I was applying, and…” he grimaced “... now I’m here I’m realizing I’m kinda nervous and really new at this. Like… this is a whole different world from the Army.”

“I’d imagine,” Probably-Shaw said faintly, looking at Clint’s biceps. He tried to flex subtly.

“And I won’t get new student orientation ‘till fall so I’m feeling a little, um— “

“Disoriented?” Shaw suggested. Clint nodded.

“Yeah. So, uh, if you can just… like, hold my hand and walk me through… everything? Like, can you find my schedule for me?” Clint gave her his best dumb grin, beginning to feel strained. Probably everything was fine and in order, but the last thing he needed was to show up at the first class and not be on the roster.

“Oh, yes, right, of course.” 

After squinting at him a bit more, as if she was trying to identify his subspecies, she finally turned and began to peck at the computer screen. It only took another five minutes and several tries for her to print out his classes, and then they were bent over the schedule together.

“Oh, you’re doing Anthro?” she asked, and Clint nodded.

“Yeah. Well. Archeology. It was.. It seemed…” he paused and decided that she didn’t need to hear Clint Ford’s entire backstory, with the Army stint and the convoy duty and the smoking rubble, and settled instead for “... it seemed interesting, and I only have two years to do the required courses so…”

“Right, right,” she agreed. “Okay. Well. You um, you’ve got Lab Techniques in Archeology and-- oh wait, that has a prereq. The registration hasn’t cleared. Did you ever…” she trailed off again, looking up at Clint like she expected him to pull a transcript out of his ass.

Clint cursed Sitwell and all his junior agents. Purple ink on his application they could manage, but they couldn’t make sure he was actually  _ registered? _

“Um, transfer credit? I think? Should be in my files,” he said.

That led to another dig into the paperwork. The transfer credits weren’t even completely faked; SHIELD Academy credits transferred to a stunning variety of institutions. Clint just hoped that a Four Week Intensive on Cultural Relations for Active Field Agents (taken a couple years ago just before he was dropped headfirst into a particularly un-fun portion of South Asia) was gonna be enough to let him skate by.

Probably-Shaw finally pulled out Clint’s NoVA Community College transcripts and grunted in success. 

“Right, okay, Lab Techniques in Archeology with Professor Burgoyne in the afternoons, Pseudoarcheology: Fallacies, Flawed Theories, and Flat-Out Lies about the Human Past-- really?”

“Yeah I know, right?” Clint said. “It’s a mouthful.”

“It’s going to be all about aliens building pyramids,” Shaw sighed. “Anyway, Tuesdays and Thursdays at 8 am with Prof. Jones. Aaaand… Textile Science?”

“I needed the elective,” Clint shrugged. This was true. It was also true that he’d gotten very tired of SHIELD’s idea of appropriate field suits, and he was pretty sure that they were lying through their teeth about the melting point of some of the options he gave them. Next time he talked to them, he wanted to be able to give them some very pointed feedback.

Shaw’s shrug this time was indicative of  _ I’ve seen weirder _ , and this seemed to be her final opinion on the classes, the meeting, and Clint himself. 

Things moved more quickly as she loaded him down with maps (unnecessary-- he’d had them memorized for weeks), university services, deadlines… Clint started to tune out midway through, despite his best efforts. A passing mention of the Borlaug Memorial Library sent his brain sliding sideways to Coulson-- to Phil-- and to how he’d seemed to wobble alarmingly between the two identities over breakfast that morning. Maybe it was Clint’s boxers; maybe that’d been the marital step too far for him. They hadn’t had a lot of time to practice the physical aspects of their covers, after all. Was there some protocol they’d skipped? Like, sparring but with kisses and butt-grabs?

Hell. Was Clint going to be expected to grab Phil’s butt?

Had Phil been expecting to be expected to grab  _ Clint’s _ , what with the lack of curtains? 

Back at SHIELD, the idea’d seemed about 90 percent amusing-- Coulson, he imagined, would grab his ass with the same air of vague amusement he used on everything. Now, Clint tried to picture Phil doing it, and it wasn’t at all the same. 

Not Phil, Clint reminded himself. Or at any rate, not  _ just _ Phil: Phillip Moore, loving husband. Mr. Moore and Mr. Ford, not just Phil and Clint, and of course they touched each other’s butts, they both had extremely touchable butts. Clint knew his butt, he was well aware of its general people-pleasing quality, and he defied anyone to see Phil’s butt in jeans and  _ not _ get the urge to grab. Clearly, for the good of the cover, Clint was just going to have to make peace with goosing and being goosed.

Which at least transferred his current worry from classes to asses, right?

Clint chuckled to himself.

“Clint?” Shaw asked, “you still with me?”

Clint assured her he was, and tried to make it true. Another five minutes turned into ten, and when he finally got up to leave she gave his hand a firm shake. 

“Thanks for everything,” he told her, bestowing one last Patented Cute Dumb Guy Grin, “And for walking me through all this basic sh… stuff. I’ll see you around?”

“Oh no,” the counselor said faintly, “probably not. I never get to that side of campus; it’s a world of it’s own. You’ll see.”

And maybe it was just the swimming greenish light, or some sudden cloud cover five stories up that made the room seem to cool and darken suddenly-- or maybe it was Clint’s own worries.

Yeah, that had to be it.

 

####

Clint heard the shout as he was descending the stairs to what he’d been told was the Department of Anthropology. Before he could react, something flew up the stairs at high speed, headed straight for his face. Clint dodged, and snatched it as it went hurtling by. When he turned, he found he’d stopped it just inches in front of the nose of a stunned young man who’d been shuffling along behind him. 

“Uh,” said the man, staring cross-eyed at Clint’s hand, which was starting to sting. Clint looked down, to find blood starting to seep out of his hand onto the shaft of the thing he’d caught. 

“What--” he asked faintly, “the hell?” 

It looked something like a long arrow with no fletching; the narrow flint point had scored his palm before he’d managed to grip the shaft. Clint took a moment to be thankful that he’d caught it edge-wise, or he might have had a neat hole in his hand.

“Atlatl,” said the man, helpfully, taking the projectile from him and tsking at the blood.

“Naturally,” Clint sighed, taking it back and starting down the stairs. “C’mon, let’s go see if someone’s getting murdered down there.”

“Do you even know what an atlatl is?” the man asked, thundering along behind him, having gotten over his shock with a disturbing ease.

“It’s a newt, right? Look, are all of you like this?”

“All of us who like what?” the man asked.

Clint didn’t answer him immediately. He had reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped through a set of open fire doors to what he suspected-- on good evidence-- was the archaeology lab. Given the yelp and the ancient projectile that had been flung at him, evaluating the situation seemed a lot more important than talking.

The lab was windowless, and lined on every wall he could see with shelves holding boxes, files, binders, or artifacts-- mostly bones or pots. Both shelves and contents looked like they’d been scrounged from random decades past, and the linoleum tile was peeling in spots. The long tables that spanned the floor also bore signs of long use, gouges in wood and dents in stainless steel. One table held microscopes and other scientific stuff, and a computer that looked like it still ran Windows ME. It was pretty clear from the state of repair where the department as a whole stood in the whole “bringing in revenue” scheme of things. Nothing in it was old enough to be atmospheric, or new enough to be state of the art. 

Still, it didn’t seem immediately threatening, and neither did the two people who stood in the middle aisle staring back at him. One was a plump man whose biggest distinguishing features were his horn-rimmed glasses and his ethnic ambiguity. The other was a short white girl with magenta hair, a nose ring, and the offending atlatl still held aloft.

“Lose something?” Clint asked, holding out the projectile.

“Oh my god that’s blood” said Horn-Rims.

“Damnit Tess you could’ve killed me,” said the man behind Clint.

“Oops,” said the girl— woman, really, Clint decided. Her face might be young but she was clearly old enough to have built up a supply of composure equal even to this situation.

“Do you need a first aid kit or something?” asked Horn-Rims, beginning to look pale.

“Fucking A, Tess, what the fuck, you can’t just go fucking using projectile weapons indoors! That shouldn’t even be out of the  _ display _ case! Are you wearing gloves?”

“Hi, I’m Clint Ford,” Clint said, holding out his clean hand to Tess. She fumbled the atlatl a moment, before pushing it into horn-rim’s arms and reaching out to shake.

“Tess Coyle,” she said. “Good to meet you. Sorry about the hand; it was a stupid bet. I didn’t  _ really _ think that’d work.”

“I think there’s a first aid kit in the wet room, if you need it,” Horn-Rims put in. “Isn’t there a first aid kit in the wet room, Bent?” He addressed the man behind Clint.

“Jesus, Tess, ‘sorry about the hand?’ What about my face, huh? Is somebody going to put the very delicate ancient weapon back or what?” As he spoke, Bent— whose name Clint really couldn’t be hearing right— came all the way into the room. He grabbed the atlatl projectile from Clint and shook it at Tess to emphasize his point.

“So this is the archaeology department, huh?” Clint smiled at Tess. “Always this exciting?”

“Oh no, you should see us on a bad day,” she smiled back. “What can we do for you?”

“Well,” Clint said, “I _ was  _ planning on majoring in archaeology. But I dunno-- someone told me it’d be quieter than the Army. I’m beginning to think they were lying.”

“You’re uh… you’re an undergrad?” Horn-Rims looked him up and down, and Clint wondered whether this was a moment to flex discreetly, or just look pleasant. He settled for a sincere smile and a shrug that involved a little more of his pectoral area than shrugs usually did, by way of compromise.

“Yeah,” Clint replied, “transfer student. Did my AA back east. Um… d’you want the full bio, or…”

“Not that interested,” Horn-Rims said, so clearly the pecs hadn’t taken. “Classes don’t start for a week, and we’re busy, so--”

“You probably want to get that first aid kit before you’ve got to clean a puddle of blood off the floor,” Bent interrupted him. 

Horn-Rims glared for a moment, then shuffled off to unlock a door in the back corner of the room. Bent himself shifted around to the front of Clint and put the projectile down on one of the tables, where Horn-Rims had placed the atlatl. Bent was less plump than Horn-Rims but just as short, darker-skinned, and he wore a button-down so aggressively nerdy it was practically unbelievable. When he turned back to Clint, it was with a glare.

“So, what,” he said, “in the Army they didn’t teach you how to catch sharp objects with your bare hands?”

“I maybe wasn’t paying attention that day,” Clint replied neutrally. “I did pay attention when they taught me not to play with weapons indoors though.” 

“There’s that,” Bent said, and raised an eyebrow at Tess, who was packing the atlatl away. She stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Won the bet, though,” she said.

“So,” Bent turned back to Clint, acting aggressively uninterested in the contents of the bet, “Army and AA? GI bill and the whole nine yards?” At Clint’s nod he snorted. “And now you wanna come play archaeology?”

“It seemed like a thing to do,” Clint said cautiously. “I like the past and I’m not afraid of hard work.” This was a point he and Sitwell had worked on, back and forth, for a while; how to explain Clint’s physique, late entry to college, and interest in antiquities. 

“Yeah? If you like the past so much where were you and all your Army buddies when they were looting Umma, huh? I bet you never even heard of it.” Bent crossed his arms over his chest and glared, and Clint felt a surge of fondness and exasperation all at once. It looked like Phil, who’d come up with the winning cover story, had been right on the money.

“I heard of it. I was in Babylon,” Clint told him quietly, “watching us fuck up the Isis Gate. That’s why I’m here; saw way too damn much obliterated. Figured maybe I could be on the other side, finally.”

“What, like penance?” Bent asked, but Clint could see it’d struck home. Whatever drove Bent beneath his pissy exterior, an appeal to the romantic side of his chosen profession had clearly worked. Apparently it had for Tess too, because she poked Bent in the arm and shoved the re-wrapped atlatl at him when he turned.

“Leave the guy alone, Bent,” she said. “It’s a better reason than you or me or Milo had. And if I get any say— and I do, since I’m the one Miranda left in charge— I say a guy who wants to get comfy in the lab before the semester starts, and who has arms like that? I think we can find work for him to do… unless you  _ want _ a hernia.”

“Work?” Clint asked, before Bent could get more… twisted… out of shape, “yeah, sure! I’m good at heavy lifting. What d’you need lifted?”

“Funny you should ask,” Tess grinned at him. “You wanted to get right up close with the past? We’ve got about a ton and a half of it, freshly dug, you can get real acquainted with.”

 

####

“Are you ready?” Phyl asked. Her face was obscured enough in the dim light of the hallway that Phil couldn’t read her expression. Her voice held amusement, though, and he supposed she probably knew just how much she’d worked him up, leading him from building to building, through a back entrance, and finally down an underground labyrinth he wasn’t sure anyone had walked through in years. 

“Yes,” Phil said, drawing in a nervous breath, “at least-- ready as I’m going to be.”

“All right. I’ll let you in-- just remember, no glove, no love.”

She winked at Phil, then turned to unlock the door, leaving him to deal with the shock of that in his own way. When he saw the archives, though, the analogy made sense-- he had to bite back a moan of delight.

Phil’d expected the Dugan papers to be stored in a temperature-controlled vault; which they were. But he’d been expecting something more industrial, less anarchic-- rows of metal shelves with banker boxes or something similar. The brutalist nature of the rest of the Borlaug Memorial Library, hadn’t done anything to reverse his expectations for the archives. There was nothing un-functional about the building’s concrete slab exterior. The institutional wood and twill furniture and rows of plain metal shelving merely completed the impression. The entire building seemed dedicated to sucking every last drop of wonder and awe out of its heavy burden of books.

But the Timothy Dugan Memorial Archive, while definitely temperature-controlled, had an endearingly hidden, cluttered quality to it, like Phil had slipped into the catacombs where the holy grail had been stored. (SHIELD, like most covert intelligence agencies, had actually been sent on grail-related wild gooses chase a time or two. Officially, of course, no one at SHIELD believed it existed. The 084s that got mistaken for the grail, however, were as often or not even weirder, and definitely worth the chase.)  

Inside the small room, boxes were piled haphazardly on old oak shelves that probably pre-dated the library, if not the university. A variety of Dugan’s rifles and other weapons, tagged, hung along the far walls, above the dim light of a microfiche machine. Several other shelves and two long tables held artifacts from Dugan’s Howling Commando days and after-- helmets and canteens and compasses and kits, a cup of blasting caps (why?) and another of medals, all of them as scattered as if Dugan’s heirs had packed them up just where they lay in his house and unpacked them in the same order--which they might well have done. In a corner, nearly hidden behind two haphazardly rolled oriental rugs, sat an ancient PC and its owner. 

“Hi Jeffrey,” Phyl chirped when the little man, red-bearded despite the age that had pulled all his skin tight around his frame, turned to look at them. “This is Phil; he needs to get access to the vault for his dissertation. Carter after the war and before SHIELD,” she added, and the man’s frown turned into a sly smile.

“Hi Phil,” he said, spinning his wheelchair away from the desk. “Come on in and let’s get you started. Do you-- ah, yeah, I see Phyl got you covered.” He gestured to Phil’s cotton-gloved hands. “Good good good. How’re you on archival protocol?”

“Go over it with me again?” Phil asked, and willingly let himself be led into the cave of wonder.

####

Tess hadn’t been lying about the ton and a half of freshly-dug past. She led Clint, trailed by Bent and Horn-Rims, out the back door of the archaeology lab and into a dimly-lit corridor with cracking linoleum floors. As they passed, she waved idly to her left to let Clint know where the faculty offices were, and Clint wondered if anyone at the University had an office aboveground, or if they all lived like moles. Midwestern winters being what they were, maybe it was a practical thing— bury yourself before the snow could? Before he could travel further on that train of thought Tess turned to her right and stopped in front of a metal door, crouching so she could fit the key on her lanyard into the lock rather than bothering to take it off. The corridor continued to the right beyond her, ending in a set of fire doors with both an Exit sign and a No Access sign above them.

“Goes out to the loading dock,” Horn-Rims explained when asked. “Well, eventually. Steam tunnels are down that way too. When you came down the steps you moved from a 70s addition to an older building. We’re actually standing under the old library-- one of the first buildings on campus. In fact, it’s older than the campus; it was built on top of an inn from the 1840s, when we were barely a bootlegger’s stop on the river. Interestingly, the foundation here is dug right into the limestone bl--”

“Oh shut up, Milo,” Tess said amiably as she cracked the door, “you sound like a tour guide.”

“Look, if Clint’s going to go to school here he should be interested in the history of--”

“Holy shit,” Clint exclaimed as he got his first look into the storage room, quickly forgetting to be interested in the history of land grant institutions, 1890s architecture, local building materials, and whatever else Horn-- Milo-- was babbling about. “It’s like that warehouse from the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

Behind him, Benton sighed. Tess giggled, and Milo mumbled that everyone said that, as if Clint had disappointed him-- again. But he wasn’t even trying to be all Clint Ford about it; it really did look like one of SHIELD’s shabbier 084 facilities. The room seemed to end in shadows instead of a wall. Tall steel shelves marched down its length, filled with boxes and crates and tupperware bins. Thin fluorescent lighting flickered as they came in the door, and Tess led him up to a set of actual wooden crates standing in the middle of the floor. They were as big as two refrigerators.

“Here,” she said, handing him a crowbar, “put those muscles of yours to good use and get crackin’.”

Clint cracked, and was a little disappointed when the opened crate revealed dozens of smaller boxes and bubble-wrapped packages, all deep in a sea of packing peanuts, instead of a relic still stuffed in its surrounding dirt. 

“Oh god no, we left the dirt in Guatemala,” Horn-- Milo-- said. Damnit, Clint should have asked his name before “Horn-Rims” got set in his head. 

“Mostly,” Benton added, already arm-deep in the crate and easing out a box. “The first one we opened had all the dirt you could want, Indy. We only do that when we’re afraid that we’ll hurt the artifact trying to dig it out in the field.”

“Or skeleton,” Tess added, frowning. “But mostly we don’t want to pay for shipping dirt. Clint, can you get the big one in the corner?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, and did. “What was in Guatemala?”

“Dr. Burgoyne’s dig,” Benton said, cradling the tupperware in his arms, “The University’s sponsored it for a few years and we use it for summer lab experience for undergrads; Tess and Milo were both down there with her. Tess was junior site supervisor and Milo… helped too.”

“Cool,” Clint said, “sorry I missed it. Well--” he allowed as he finally pried free the box Tess had indicated, heaving upright with a grunt-- “mostly missed it. What the hell is in this, bricks?”

“Quite possibly,” Tess grinned. “Or something like it. Dr. Burgoyne had us bring some of the smaller reliefs from the temple walls. Good thing you came by; I don’t think Bent and Milo could lift those even together, and the wheelie cart has a flat.”

“There’s a wheelie cart?” Clint asked plaintively, looking back at the open crate. 

“That has a flat. Get moving, big boy-- you wanted to help.”

Clint couldn’t argue with that. At least, he decided, he was getting very acquainted with every nook and cranny an 084 might be lurking in. All several hundred of them. 

They worked for far longer than Clint had expected, sorting and moving boxes. Milo checked each of them against an inventory while Tess directed and Clint heaved. Bent made space where space was needed and griped at Clint when he nearly dropped a tupperware full of foam-wrapped bits of what looked like rock— or maybe fossilized dog doo.

“Coprolites,” Bent hissed, taking the tupperware from him and stroking the sides possessively. “And they’ll tell me more about daily life on the site than all those damned bas reliefs combined.”

“Sorry,” Clint said, letting a little of his own growing frustration show, “I want to study archaeology, remember? I don’t already have a Ph.D. in it.” 

Bent glared at him a moment, then turned on his heels and walked out.

“Ouch,” Tess said, and Clint gave her a what-did-I-do kinda stare. “Neither does Bent,” she explained. “ABD, and the D has been going on for  _ ages _ now.”

“Oh yeah?” Clint said, turning back to the crate, “what on?”

“Fossilized turds,” Tess shrugged, turning around. “Like the stuff he just walked out of the room.”

Clint decided he had nothing to say to that, and started moving boxes again. 

Bent didn’t come back for hours, probably happily arranging his crap in the lab, but Tess and Milo stayed with Clint, sorting and cataloging and doing their share of moving large boxes. They passed the time by filling Clint in on the dig itself, the pre-Colombian ruins of a temple that they both said was really unique, absolutely striking, although when he asked why they quickly ran off into jargon and technicalities. It had something to do with pottery, if the sheer number of potsherds he unpacked were any indication. 

It was lovely stuff, covered in abstract animals and geometric patterns like lollipops or kids’ toys. Milo waxed lyrical over all of it, trying to show Clint how it differed from the usual early Olmec patterns. He seemed convinced that the loops in particular were going to “throw the accepted Mother-culture hypothesis on its ear.”

Clint nodded along and hummed whenever he thought Milo thought he’d made a particularly good point.

Privately, Clint was starting to despair. He had no idea how he was supposed to recognize an 084 in the muddle if he saw one, or it if might have been unpacked in an earlier shipment. He closed his eyes briefly as the last faint hope of getting out before classes started disappeared. Dr. Burgoyne wasn’t even back yet-- they expected her tomorrow. She’d been supposed to come back with them, Milo had grumbled, but something had delayed her. Tess had shied away from just what it was; paperwork or customs or crap like that. As her assistants, Tess and Milo had gotten the scut work of unpacking, apparently. 

Clint hadn’t yet figured out how to bring up the missing Dr. Magnos, either. He badly missed Coulson’s voice in his ear-- surely he’d’ve had some kind of suggestion. Coulson was  _ good _ at casual interrogation-- not quite Sitwell levels, but no one figured out how good Sitwell was because no one realized they’d been interrogated in the first place. Coulson’s smirk’d give it away eventually, long after you’d landed yourself in the shit. Clint could admit it was maybe a little hot. 

Dammit, why couldn’t he at least have Coulson on comms?

“Ouch,” Tess said, standing and cracking her neck, “that’s it. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. I’m gonna need at least a pitcher myself, Milo.”

“Ugh,” Milo said, “good, I don’t want to share your crap beer anyway. Let’s put this away and get Bent.”

“Sure,” Tess said, removing the last box from Clint’s hands, then blinking as if just remembering he was here. “You wanna come with?” she asked him, ignoring Milo’s quickly-covered grimace.

“I dunno,” Clint said, “I’d love to, but it’s my turn to make dinner tonight; my husband was gonna be stuck at the library.”

“Eh,” Tess said, “that’s close to the student union. Just tell him to meet us. The more the merrier, right Milo?”

“Ugh,” said Milo. 

 

####

An hour later, Clint was sitting on a long terrace at the back of the student union, three quarters of a shared pitcher into some very agreeable beer. The terrace sat at the top of a gentle bluff above the river, but Clint was totally ignoring the sun throwing its golden rays over the valley below in favor of frowning down at his phone.

“No husband?” Tess asked, taking advantage of Clint’s distraction to steal a cheese curd from the paper dish in front of him.

“Hasn’t responded at all,” Clint said, “not like him.”

On any standard op, this was where Clint would be checking in with control, or else initiating a loss of contact protocol. And Phil would, ideally, have let him know he was going dark. 

But then, of course, this wasn’t a standard op. Clint forced himself to breathe evenly, hoping he wasn’t coming off weirdly stalker-y of his own spouse. At any rate, none of his three new friends looked concerned.

“He still supposed to be in the library?” Tess asked, and Clint nodded.

“Can’t get decent cell coverage in half the library,” Milo shrugged, either by way of reassurance or general complaint. “Actually, you can’t get decent coverage in half this campus. If it’s not the caves and tunnels it’s all the shit concrete construction. The Borlaug might as well be a bunker. I’m sure he’ll be around.” He licked pizza grease off his fingers. 

Clint darted his gaze away, uncomfortably reminded of the night before, cuddling with Phil in front of their wide-open windows, and the sudden desire to remove the napkin from Phil’s fingers and clean them with his tongue that had shot through him. 

“Yeah, suppose he will,” Clint sighed. “And his own fault if he doesn’t have anything hot to eat. It’s… I’ve just never seen him this wrapped up, is all.”

“Oh, get used to it,” Milo told him, “the dissertation is a harsh mistress, so I hear.” Milo was a year or so out yet from starting his, Clint had discovered as they worked, but he seemed unconcerned with the prospect. 

“That it is,” Bent sighed, sitting back with a sigh and going distant, as if he was hearing the siren song of his own paper calling. “Only mistress, sometimes.”

He’d unwound considerably over the course of a few beers and the tongue-melting effect of the battered curds. For some reason, the revelation that Clint had willingly espoused an ABD had warmed him up. 

“Yeah well, it’s been his other woman for something like the last seven years, on and off,” Clint said, trying to throw the backstory out casually. “So I suppose I should be used to it by now.”

“Seven years?” Tess winced. “Make or break time, then. What took him so long? Active duty or something?”

“Look, some dissertations just take time,” Bent snapped, startling Clint. “And sometimes people’s counselors retire and their new counselors make them start everything over. Some people are just luckier than others, Tess.”

Clint didn’t think Bent was talking about Phil anymore, somehow. 

Tess narrowed her eyes at him. 

“I don’t remember my dissertation being a walk in the park either, Bent. And I wasn’t trying to imply anything about Clint’s man— except he’s going to naturally be pretty busy right now. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she ended, turning to Clint as if he were the one who was in distress.

“Yeah, unless he ends up with magical disappearing faculty,” Bent interjected.

And there it was— only Clint’s mouth was too full of cheese curd for him to take it up in any believably nonchalant fashion. He swallowed hard, trying to make room to talk before the conversation moved on.

“I don’t think that’s likely to happen again,” Tess said, quellingly.

“Hope not,” Bent told her, refusing to be quelled, “we’re running short on faculty.”

“You’re what?” Clint managed to ask, before Tess could speak up again. “What, like… someone resigned with no notice or something?”

“Kind of,” Bent said, looking frustrating. “Except in this case someone disappeared into the rainforest, leaving yours truly with no one in this department who actually understands my work.  _ Again _ .”

“I am pretty sure that your dissertation wasn’t tops on Dr. Magnos’s mind,” Tess told him. 

“Dr. Magnos?” Clint yelped, seizing his moment and making his eyes as big and guileless as possible. “But I know her.”

“You… do?” Tess asked. She’d stopped picking at Clint’s curds, one of them dangling between her fingers. Bent was similarly frozen, his face caught in a sudden grimace. 

“Well,” Clint amended, waving it off, “not, like, personally. But I contacted a couple people before I came here, trying to get the lay of the land, you know? She was really helpful. She’s gone?”

“Tep,” Milo said, with somewhat inappropriate relish, “She was on the dig with us, ‘till she just up and left two weeks in. Tess had to take over her class this fall. Which, well,” he rubbed his fingers together and winked at Tess. “Silver linings.”

“Milo it wasn’t--” Tess frowned and turned to Clint-- “look, it’s not like she left a letter of resignation. Just disappeared. We were really worried, had to have the town send out search parties, contacted the embassy, whole nine yards.”

“Jesus!” Clint said, “what happened?”

“We don’t know,” Tess shrugged. “But I don’t think she just took off, Milo. That’s why Dr. Burgoyne is still there, y’know. She’s talking with the embassies and the police, and there’s international stuff— I don’t know what all. But it’s  _ scary _ , okay? I mean she could’ve fallen, or been kidnapped--”

“Oh come off it Tess, isn’t it more likely she just ran off with that guy from the hotel--” Milo started, only to be stopped with a glare that would have made Clint reconsider talking for at least the next two weeks, if it had been directed at him.

Luckily, Milo seemed to be made from sterner— or perhaps stupider— stuff than Clint. He just rolled his eyes at the glare and grabbed another curd.

“Not like we were sworn to silence or anything, Tess. And when the undergrads get back it’ll be all over anyway.”

“Guy from the hotel?” Clint asked, going for innocent, and they were off. He ordered another pitcher halfway through, and wished he’d been smart enough to bring a recording device.

####

It was near the waning edge of sunset when Phil finally emerged from the bowels of the library, his head stuffed with Commandos, and set off across campus. The fading light softened the edges of the buildings and blazed across the sheet metal side of Leopold BioScience, blinding him momentarily. It occurred to him as he reached the edges of campus, where the massed halls for the liberal arts and sciences gave way to the more scattered centers of agriculture and interior design, that he’d been supposed to meet Clint at home for dinner. Unfortunately, “sunset” and “dinner” were not that compatible.

Phil broke into a jog for a block or two before slowing down. He was being absurd; Clint would understand, after all. Anyway, “dinner” probably meant take-out and he could just re-heat that. There was no real hurry— and yet Phil started to pick his pace back up. He had so much to tell Clint-- about Phyl and Jeffrey and finding Dugan’s third-best bowler in the back of a box. He hoped when he got home he wouldn't just clam up-- he had a tendency to hoard little bits of joy he thought no one else would understand.

But this morning, at least, Clint had shown signs that maybe he got why Phil was so excited. Phil wasn’t sure whether that was reassuring or terrifying. Probably the latter-- the last thing he needed was a sympathetic Clint Barton listening to him with those blue eyes opened wide. Phil shook his head and sped up further as he got to the stretch of path that lay in a little copse of trees, separating the Hawkeye Student Cooperative from the main campus. He wanted to get through it before full dark fell.

Phil emerged from the woods into the rolling dells of the Cooperative, with their neat series of 70s utopian co-housing just in time to see Clint ambling towards their building in the company of someone short and broad. They looked a little blurred under the pink flicker of streetlights, but Phil would have known Clint’s shoulders anywhere. Short and broad was looking down and evidently talking, forcing Clint to bend in to make out his words properly. Phil felt his hand twitch with the sudden urge to jerk the guy’s head up, followed by a surge of something like disappointment: apparently Clint hadn’t remembered about dinner.

Either.

Hadn’t remembered  _ either,  _ Phil reminded himself.

“Phil!” Clint cried, looking up and squinting into the sunset at him, “hey babe, didn’t you get my text?”

No, Phil realized as he dug out his phone, he had not gotten Clint’s text.

“I told you the library was a dead zone,” Short and Broad sighed. 

“‘S all right,” Clint said, “Horn...Milo here got me back in one piece. Didn’tcha?” He slapped Milo on the back, just exaggerated enough a gesture to be suspicious.

“Ugh,” Milo said, and Phil blinked, then blinked again at Clint’s sympathetic laugh.

“Yeah, yeah-- no touching. Sorry, dude. I’m gonna say goodbye here and get Phil inside-- and thanks again.” 

With that, Clint bundled Phil inside with brisk efficiency and a firm hand on his ass. He waved to the departing Milo as he closed the door, then sighed and tossed his backpack on the floor in front of the tv.

“Ugh,” Clint said. 

“Rough?” Phil asked, and got a weak chuckle in return.

“I must’ve moved half a ton of shit today. Man, Phil, I wish you’d been at the Union. I really wanted your read on them.”

“Tell me now?” Phil said, pulling off his messenger bag and setting it on the futon.

“Yeah-- in a minute, okay? Gotta piss--” Clint was already disappearing up the stairs, leaving Phil standing in their dark living room with the wonder of the archives rapidly drying up on his lips.

He shrugged after a moment and went to the kitchen to get himself dinner, trying not to let the dregs of his enthusiasm grow too bitter. Hard to blame Clint for not living up to his fantasies of hot’n’spicy chicken and an eager audience. Clint didn’t even know they were his fantasies after all— and “be a sympathetic ear” had not been mentioned anywhere in Clint’s mission parameters.

Phil was crunching on his second piece of toast and flicking through email when Clint came back downstairs, rubbing the back of his head.

“Sorry,” he said as he wandered over, “must’ve drunk a whole pitcher myself. I swear Tess was trying to get me drunk. Or get Bent drunk-- who the hell names their child ‘Bent’ anyway? Gotta be short for something. Speaking of short, what’d you think of Milo?”

“Not… much?” Phil hazarded, and Clint laughed. 

“That’s the kind of insight I was hoping for all right. Jeez, what’re you in the dark for?” He turned on the kitchen light, making Phil grunt, and rustled around in the fridge for a drink. “How was your day? Find the archives?”

“Yes,” Phil told him, “they were…” he paused as the words stuck like paste in his throat, “they were something else. I felt like I was in a cave.”

“Hah!” Clint said, snapping open a can and slamming the fridge door, “I know! This whole damn campus is like a rabbit warren. You should’ve seen the lab and the storage room-- like something out of an Indiana Jones flick. And the student union has a real-for-real rathskeller. Felt like I was back in Berlin. Hrmph.”

And then, in the middle of his increasingly-annoying ramble, Clint bent over and kissed Phil on the neck.

“What?” Phil said faintly.

“Window,” Clint mumbled into his skin. “You didn’t get to Target, huh?”

“Fuck,” Phil sighed, and got Clint’s huff of laughter delivered right against his collarbone. 

“There’s always tomorrow. I— Phil?” Clint paused, sounding suddenly tentative, “You didn’t want dinner or something?” 

After a moment of confusion, Phil realized Clint was staring down at the remnants of his toast.

“Dinner?” 

“‘Of course dinner, I told you I was gonna get it, didn’t I?” Clint was already across the room and rummaging in his backpack, digging out a slightly crumpled styrofoam clamshell and a paper box, both of which wafted grease in a manner that made Phil’s stomach grumble and heave at the same time. 

“Oh,” Phil said when Clint plopped them down in front of him. “Shit, I didn’t--”

“If you’re not hungry anymore--” Clint started, his voice light but his eyes weirdly intent. Phil shook his head vigorously even though he really wasn’t hungry; irrational disappointment made a heavy meal.

“No, I could eat, I just… um. Thank you.” He started opening boxes, hoping the gesture was more eloquent than he was. He’d clearly already disappointed Clint enough— no need to seem ungrateful.

“Okay,” Clint said, taking Phil’s toast plate out from under him and wandering over to the sink. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but I figured a cheeseburger’s always safe and the curds are leftover. Dunno how they’re going to hold up, but--” Phil let the words wash over him while he carefully re-stacked the tumbledown bacon cheeseburger and bit into it. The lettuce had wilted and the cheese had congealed and he wasn’t sure it was better than toast, but the second bite went down better than the first, and the third was perfectly adequate. He turned to the curds.

“-- finally got them to start talking about Professor Magnos after the second pitcher,” Clint was saying, and Phil perked back up. “They said she disappeared about three weeks into the dig, which is what Fury said. I guess the stories are about the same as his, no big changes there. Not sure if that’s because they’ve all got some party line they’re parroting, or if there’s really nothing there.” 

While he talked, Clint puttered around, sorting mail and moving dishes from sink to dishwasher. Phil got momentarily caught up staring at his backside as it bent, and his knob-knuckled hands as they worked, missing the sense of his words.

“-- wish you’d been there,” Clint said as he turned back around and Phil was able to concentrate again. “You’d’ve been able to spot anything hinky in a minute, I bet-- but they all think it went down differently. Milo thinks Magnos ran off with with this Eurotrash guy from their hotel, Bent thinks she ran off with an un-cataloged pot or something, and Tess, who is kinda my favorite so far I think, figures she fell off a cliff in the dark. Man, those don’t do well cold, do they?”

“No,” Phil said, giving up on his attempt to chew a rubbery curd without it squeaking, “but I doubt they’d heat up well either.”

“Well,” Clint sighed, staring at the offending glob of battered cheese, “I tried. I’m sorry, Phil.”

“No, no-- you’re-- it’s my own fault,” Phil told him, trying to fend off the uncertainty in Clint’s voice, which was either more irritating than something that made him feel so bad should be, or felt worse than something so irritating should. Either way, he had to get rid of it. “Really. I got distracted. Just… god, Clint, the archives were so different than I expected. They were amazing.” 

“Yeah?” Clint said, and paused, long enough that Phil figured he was going to start up on Milo again any minute and was trying not to feel irked-- it was the mission after all-- “how so?”

“I… just…” Given the opportunity to talk,    Phil found out he had nothing to say after all. He gave up and shrugged. There’d be other days. “There’s a lot there. How, um, how did they like Magnos?”

“Mostly liked her, I guess? I got the impression Milo’s kinda jealous she walked right into a visiting professor spot, didn’t have to go through adjunct hell, whatever that means,” Clint said, reaching over to squeeze Phil’s shoulder in some kind of no-doubt-conjugal fashion. “Ow. Damn, you’re tense.”

“Bent over all day,” Phil said, and Clint hummed. 

“Yeah I know how that goes. Hold still, and lemme see if I can help--” and he pressed down hard with two knuckles on the meat of Phil’s left shoulder.

“Clint!” Phil yelled as he came up off the stool, his shoulder suddenly on fire. 

“Wow, Mr. Moore,” Clint said breathlessly, “that was unexpected.”

“Yes, fuck, it was,” Phil said, and rubbed his shoulder-- his much, much looser shoulder. “Um. But do it again? Other side?”

Clint did it again, other side, while Phil quivered and tried to hold still against the pain. When he was done, Clint pushed Phil back down and started kneading his shoulders and neck. His hands were still firm nearly to the point of pain, but Phil gritted his teeth and let Clint go on, because the knots he’d built up were slowly retreating under Clint’s hands. Phil felt exhaustion hit as the tension flowed out of him. He sagged back into Clint’s touch like it was the only thing keeping him from dripping away.

They picked over Clint’s day as Clint worked on Phil’s back, matching the experience of the Tess and Milo and Bent to Fury’s reports, deciding that if Magnos had confided in any of them— either about SHIELD and her sabbatical or about anything odd on the dig-- they were keeping it secret. They moved on to the mysterious unmet Dr. Burgoyne, due back in the next few days, who had handled the local authorities with a hand so firm, from what Tess had said, that Phil had vague notions of recruiting her to SHIELD and introducing her to Maria Hill. Clint had learned even less about Dr.s Santander and Jones, the other full professors, but so long as he kept hanging around the lab under the pretense of unloading, it was just a matter of time before he met them.

“Well,” Phil sighed as Clint wound down, his kneading turning into light strokes over Phil’s well-pummeled back, “we were never going to solve it the first day, were we?” 

A yawn caught him by surprise, and he passed it on to Clint. They passed it back and forth at least once more, and by the time they both finished they were blinking owlishly at each other. 

“Sorry,” he said, unsure how to convey that he meant for more than the yawn. He knew he’d been disappointing Clint the whole evening, and he was tired enough that the realization that he ought to be encouraging disappointment just made him feel vaguely sad.

“Bedtime?” Clint suggested, and Phil started to slip off the stool, before he realized something fairly pertinent: the tension had not left his body entirely under the Clint’s insistent hands. No, it had somehow drifted southwards and lodged in his pants. No wonder restlessness was warring with exhaustion.

“Um, you go ahead,” Phil said, shifting a little, “I’m going to tidy up down here then take a shower. Okay?”

Clint looked at him so sharply that Phil felt a brief-- definitely  _ not _ intriguing, there was no need for his body to respond, goddammit-- conviction he’d noticed what was up. 

“Yeah, Mr. Moore,” he said finally, “you could probably use a shower after all that dust.” 

He kissed Phil on the forehead-- Phil really needed to remember those damn curtains-- and went upstairs.

Phil did not watch Clint’s back as the puddled moonlight slid over it. And any regret he felt, sour in his gut and warring with arousal, was just because Clint was a good man, and it wasn’t fair that he had to deal with Phil being, well,  _ Phil _ just so that Phil could get over him. 

It wasn’t until Phil was already in the shower, hot water completing the good work Clint’s massage had started on his shoulders and his hand completing what Clint had started elsewhere, that it occurred to Phil that all his earlier irritation at Clint had vanished with the tension. All that he had left to show for the whole evening was gratitude, an erection, and a profound annoyance with his own weakness. 

He finished off quickly and went in to slip under the covers, trying to ignore the determined curve of Clint’s back, or the way the scent of him seemed to only have strengthened. It was going to take a while, Phil told himself, for them to dig into the archeology faculty and for Phil to get himself over Clint. He could start again tomorrow; tomorrow was plenty of time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned next time as Clint and Phil go on a (totally not a date), attempt to buy curtains, and thicken the plot. Chapter 3 will be up sometime the weekend of October 27-29.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they settle into their public and private roles on the operation, Phil and Clint encounter some unexpected challenges. Clint begins to wonder if the mystery they were sent to solve might end up being the least dangerous part of the operation, and Phil has a run-in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which this becomes a literal curtain-fic.

The morning was already hot and muggy when Clint stepped out the door. Daylilies groped him as he walked down the path leading from his front door, a near-river of small reddish ants streamed from one side of the concrete to the other, and more than one large bug careened past him before he’d even made it to the sidewalk. Clint looked up at the trees, all threatening to drop bird shit or dew on him, and sighed. 

It reminded him too much of his least favorite parts of summer as a child in Waverly. The town wasn’t even that far away, just an hour’s drive, maybe a bit more or less. He hadn't been that close in years-- certainly not since he’d left the circus. He'd never intended to be close again if he could help it; he didn't need the old memories that stirred up with the dust. 

Waverly was all farm and prairie, adding a near-complete lack of natural cover to its many non-charms. Clint wasn't sure if that had added to the general sense of dread he'd felt as a child, if everyone felt that way about the flat land, or if it was yet another gift from an abusive father. Here in Driftless, at least, the hills folded, old and secret, as the rivers meandered through them cutting bluffs on their way to the Mississippi. Here a body could hide for days or weeks or ages if need be. 

Sometimes as a kid, Clint had wished he  _ could _ hide for days, when the sticky air and pressing heat had fractured already fragile tempers and his dad had broken over them like the storms broke over the town. 

Clint shook his head violently to free it from its wandering and sipped lukewarm coffee from his leaky travel mug. Waverly was an hour away and the rest of it was decades gone. Better to leave the past alone. 

He made his way through the buzzing morning towards the new part of campus and the archeology lab. While he was trying to be grateful Phil’d made coffee before disappearing on a run while Clint was in the shower, it was sitting badly in his stomach— or maybe it was less the coffee and more not having a repeat of the previous day’s unexpectedly cozy breakfast. Not that he could blame Phil for disappearing before Clint was up; he was an active agent, he needed exercise, and they needed to get a better lay of the land. A morning run was an inconspicuous way to accomplish both goals.

If only Clint was certain that was all, that Phil wasn’t avoiding him. Phil hadn’t made it to bed until Clint was already mostly asleep; his reflexes had yanked him to wakefulness just long enough to register that the jostling on the other side of the mattress was Phil rather than an assassin. 

So if Phil was avoiding him, why? Had Clint pushed thing too far, tried to get too conjugal too fast? It was possible-- Clint knew he tended to rush into things and backpedal later when necessary. (Or retreat under fire, in some cases.) Maybe he’d done that last night with the neck rub? 

He remembered Phil’s flinch away from his initial touch and winced. Yeah, he’d come on way too fast— Phil’d probably needed a break from all the pretense. Phil could have told him though, right? After all they’d talked about this, back at SHIELD. Phil knew Clint would be at least a little bit  _ on  _ most of the time-- even before Clint had seen the picture windows he’d figured it’d be easier that way. Phil hadn’t objected then, and Phil  _ would _ have told him. He didn’t leave his partners without important intel in the field-- at least he never had before. Maybe they had different definitions of “on”?

Clint probably needed to ask.

Ugh.

That conversation, in his experience, never went well. Usually, he found out he was supposed to have known what to do already, that normal people didn’t have to ask whether it was okay to give their fake spouses back rubs. Normal people knew that when their real spouses went into the bedroom and closed the door they just wanted some damn alone time for once.

Normal people clearly weren’t Clint. He could barely read his own needs, much less anybody else’s. It was a big reason he was bad at real relationships. Stood to reason he’d be bad at fake ones too.

So he probably shouldn’t ask Phil, after all. He just needed to suck it up and remember his boundaries and try to pay attention.

Clint stewed so long he was already in the building, down the stairs, and entering the Anthropology lab before he realized it’d attained several new occupants, all of whom were staring at him.

“Can I help you?” asked a tall woman he’d never seen before, glaring at him from behind frameless glasses. She was clearly a professor, from her collarless linen jacket to the carnelian rings on her knobby fingers. Clint couldn’t be entirely sure if the sour look on her face was because of him or because her silver-streaked bun was pulled too tight, but either way it didn’t bode well. 

“Um,” Clint said, shifting his coffee to his left hand to free his right for shaking, “I’m supposed to be helping you, I thought?”

“Hrmph,” said the woman, and Clint might be bad at reading other people, but he knew a potentially explosive situation when he stumbled into one.

####

Clint was already out of the apartment and disappearing down the path that took him towards the heart of campus as Phil rounded the last bend towards their temporary home. Phil tried to be relieved at that, but a traitorous hint of regret bubbled up from his gut. 

It was stupid.

After all, he’d timed his run to avoid Clint-- and another early-morning meeting with Clint’s nearly-bare behind-- on purpose. He’d set his clock radio for o-dark-thirty, rolled himself out of bed and the warmth that Clint’s afore-mentioned behind apparently radiated, dressed, and stumbled downstairs to make coffee. Phil’d known there was no way Clint could hear him getting ready; the sudden blast of two am Turandot from the neighbors who had shared their back wall, which had made Phil sit straight up and reach for a gun, hadn’t even roused him, so clearly “nessun dorma” didn’t apply when hearing aids were out. Nevertheless, Phil had found himself moving stealthily, hurriedly. He’d swigged down his coffee in big gulps as he tied his shoelaces and consulted a campus map, plotting a route that took him around the edge of campus and along a trail studded with exercise stations.

He’d loved every minute of the run; the asphalt trail was softer beneath his feet than the pavement of DC sidewalks, the day was still so new it was pale, the air buzzed in that way the best summer mornings do, full of life, and the sun was sweet on his back. The path had quickly taken him away from their co-op community, curving around one hill and cutting straight through the next, revealing its shaggy limestone heart. The oaks that topped the clifflets curved in, so that Phil felt like he was running through the vaults of a cathedral. Later on, the path turned to pounded dirt for a while, taking Phil through the woodlands that the forestry students managed. He had emerged onto an open expanse of pastureland where dozy undergrads were stooping low over the grasses, taking samples of cowpies. The few other joggers on the path exchanged polite little nods with him. 

Contentment settled over Phil. There was a sense of order to a busy SHIELD installation, everyone in their place and bustling with purpose. While each station had its own pace, the underlying rhythm remained the same the world over. It settled something inside him to come back from a mission and let himself be sucked back into one of its currents. In its own, far slower, way, the the university felt the same way. 

As he ran, Phil tried to calculate how great the risk would be if he took the same path every day, instead of varying the way he did in DC. It would be nice to learn how the run changed on cool days or rainy ones, to see the fields grow, to learn which joggers he shared a daily routine with. It felt daring just to contemplate it, and oh god, what did it say about his SHIELD life that a standard morning jog felt transgressive?

As he rounded the last curve towards home and saw Clint leaving, Phil slowed his steps, suddenly reluctant to cover the last bit of ground and go inside. He spent a moment lingering on Clint’s back as it disappeared from view (just in case someone ambushed him, of course) before stepping up and putting his key in the lock. Once inside, he showered quickly, hydrated, then bent over the counter to consume some yogurt and granola, along with one of Clint’s inexhaustible supply of hard-boiled eggs. In his head, he was already deep into his dissertation, picking out vague points that the v-mail archives Jeffrey had shown him yesterday could help him answer.

####

As he walked back out the door, Phil’s SHIELD-hardened instincts yanked him out of his outlining. 

Someone was just turning away from the path to their door, someone who had clearly been lurking with intent.

“Hello,” Phil said, careful to keep his voice light.

The person froze then turned slowly around, struggling to wipe guilt from their— from her— face.

“Hi—” she said. Her eyes darted to the window, then back to Phil. She seemed to be harmless enough, and pulled nervously at the hem of her shirt, waiting for Phil to speak. When he didn’t, she started back up. 

“Um, you… you guys must be new here, right?” Her voice spiraled high on the end of her question. “Only, my friend said she saw some new people move in. That’s you?”

Phil agreed that it was and smiled at her benignly, letting her continue to struggle for words. 

If she was a spy, she was really really good at deep cover, and truly pathetic at stealth. She stammered on for a moment about how nice a morning it was, how much quieter it was in summer versus fall semesters and it was nice, wasn’t it nice? She finally moved on to how she and and her three roommates lived in the apartment complex down the street and had noticed them moving in (she blushed, so Phil suspected it was Clint and his arms she’d primarily noticed) and ended her ramble by asking if Phil and his roommate had gotten the flier yet about Friday night dinner at the common house.

“My husband,” Phil corrected her, flashing his wedding ring, and watched her face fall. He fought against his smile which was attempting to turn smug at the edges, and continued.“And no, we have not. It’s nice of you to ask.”

“Oh,” she cried, pulling her face back into a strained grin, “I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you two were married. Not… not that I should have assumed, right? But I mean, it’s not like you see a lot of— though that’s stupid, you totally should. Be able to get married, I mean. I guess you just don’t expect…. Um. Anyway. Husband. Yay! Uh… Massachusetts?”

“Canada,” Phil said, trying his best not to laugh.

“Wow! Neat! That’s dedication! I mean… of course it is, if you’re married, you already… crap. Sorry. I’ll just….” She blushed even harder, straight down to her neckline, and buried her face in her bookbag, rummaging around.

Any fleeting worries Phil’d had about going undercover as a gay couple in the Midwest disappeared into mirth. Fury’s calculations had been correct, like always— it only helped sell their cover. After all, spies were supposed to be inconspicuous, James Bond and his fictional ilk aside. Older, gay,  _ married _ returning students were anything but that. No one in their right mind was going to accuse him and Clint of faking it, because why the hell would they? If this was any indication, their bigger issue was going to be figuring out how to gracefully calm down people who panicked about not seeming supportive enough.

He sent up a mental thank you to liberal education, for indoctrinating people in the homosexual agenda. 

After a moment, he sent another thank you to Clint’s ass, since Phil obviously owed the girl’s presence, and this unexpected opportunity to reinforce their cover, entirely to a desire to see it up close and personal. Not that Phil was going to tell him so— the last thing he needed was to encourage Clint’s behind-baring ways.

The girl finished digging in her bag and came up with a rumpled and coffee-stained flier.

“Here,” she said. “Um. It’s, like, either bring ten bucks or sign up to help at the next dinner?”

“Great,” Phil said, looking down at it without really reading it. “I’ll talk to Clint.” 

“Oh cool. Yeah. Um. See you… see you there. I hope.” She was backing away as she talked, and on the last word, she gave him finger guns. After a frozen moment, she looked down at her own hands in betrayal, turned, and fled.

Phil laughed all the way to the library. It was a glorious morning.

 

####

“That is a truly impressive specimen of excrement you have there, Mr. Lewis,” Dr. Merlin Santander intoned. Clint tried not to choke.

Bent— or Benton Lewis, to give him his full name, which Clint had finally learned— agreed with Dr. Santander, and stroked the fossilized turd in question before nestling it gently in a tupperware container padded with wads of paper towel. Clint turned away from them with a grimace, and looked for work that didn’t include discussing crap— even in Dr. Santander’s dulcet tones. 

In a corner, Tess was prying the last nails out of the lid of a large crate while talking to Dr. Burgoyne. They were both speaking too low for Clint to hear, and he was at the wrong angle to try and lip-read.  Too bad; while Clint had gotten to spend a fair amount of time with Dr. Santander, he badly wanted to get a better read on Burgoyne. She seemed significantly less intimidating while working with Tess than she had while attempting to throw Clint out when he’d arrived in the morning. The woman could go toe to toe with any of SHIELD’s most overwhelming agents. Thankfully, Tess had vouched for Clint as a recruit of Dr. Magnos’s and endorsed his ability to lift boxes, so he’d been allowed to keep helping under careful supervision. 

The mood was far less congenial than it had been the day before. Under the influence of Burgoyne, the Department Head, Tess and Milo drew apart from him and even from each other. Whether it was because they feared her, or just because she was the boss, Clint couldn’t tell. Bent stayed Bent, the stick up his ass still firmly wedged in place. So Clint kept his mouth shut, unpacked, and watched. He grew more and more oppressed as time went on and the atmosphere grew more stuffy, except for the brief periods of respite where Dr. Santander had come over to quiz him on the state of various Iraqi sites or Tess directed him towards more boxes.

The crate Tess was working on now seemed to be resisting dismemberment. She was struggling to get good leverage with the claw of her hammer and raising splinters rather than the last of the nails. Burgoyne watched her struggle for a moment, until Tess levered the hammer handle against the side of the case and gave a mighty heave. 

The nail popped free and shot forward to pop Burgoyne on the forehead, and Tess nearly impaled herself with the now-unobstructed hammer. 

“Hrmph,” Burgoyne said. She handed Tess the nail delicately and retreating from the scene.

Tess stared forlornly at the bit of mangled metal in her hand.

“Can I help?” Clint asked, coming forward. He grabbed for the sides of the lid and heaved, twisting and popping off the few remaining nails by main force. It wasn’t any safer than what Tess’d been doing, but he figured Clint Ford wasn’t the kind of guy who’d care. (Clint Barton, contrary to popular belief, did care about safety practices, at least intermittently. The idea of being out of the field because he’d wrenched his back falling off a ladder or something was a minor nightmare.)

“Thanks,” Tess said, grabbing the other end of the lid and helping him set it down. “I thought that was going to end me.”  

“No problem. That slab looks huge, where do you want it?” Clint moved past her to the crate and started pulling the tarp off a bas relief as big as his torso. 

“Uh,” Tess said behind him, “I’m not sure. Dr. Burgoyne?”

Burgoyne turned away from her inventory frowning, clearly annoyed at being pulled away from her own thoughts.

“What are you doing?” she snapped at Clint, and Clint backed away from the crate instinctively, throwing his hands up.

“Just helping. It looked heavy.”

“I see.” Burgoyne de-ruffled a little. “We don’t need assistance right now, but thank you. Tess should be sufficient.”

“But—” Clint started, glancing at Tess, who looked dismayed at the idea. She had displayed some pretty impressive lifting ability, but the slab looked like it needed at least two people and the wheelie cart. 

“’But?’” Burgoyne asked, raising an eyebrow in a Fury-esque fashion. Clint’s stomach sank instinctively. Nothing good ever came of that sort of eyebrow.

“Well, I just—”

Whatever Clint was going to say (and he wasn’t sure himself) was interrupted at that moment by Milo poking his head in the door and saying:

“Hey Ford, your husband is on the line.”

“My what?” Clint asked, a little blankly. The eyebrow’d already thrown him off kilter, and for a moment nothing in Milo’s sentence made sense.

“Husband. On the phone. Do you want to talk to him?” Milo wasn’t rolling his eyes, but he might as well have been.

“What’s he want?” Clint asked, trying to pull himself back together.

Milo just shrugged. Clint cut his losses, and wandered out to get the phone under a cloud of minor ignominy.

“Hey,” Phil said when Clint greeted him, “I tried your cell but I think your lab must be a dead zone too. Want to come out to lunch? It’s such a nice day, and I’ve been stuck in meetings with the History faculty. I’d love to debrief— and maybe see sunshine. There’s a little gyros joint someone recommended over in Clemens.”

Clemens was the student neighborhood tucked in between the university’s campus and the industrial district lining the riverbank, not that it mattered much to Clint at that moment. Phil could have asked him out to a nice little meth lab and Clint would have responded with equally genuine gratification, even though he strongly disagreed with any characterization of the day as  _ nice _ . It was as nice as Burgoyne was sweet. But walking across campus in the swimming heat to grab a sandwich sounded better than staying under Burgoyne’s gimlet gaze at the moment.

He popped his head back into the storage room to say he was going out for lunch. Burgoyne gave him another raised eyebrow and a “how nice” that definitely wasn’t. Tess gave him a leer and said “have a fun ‘lunch,’” at which Bent gave  _ her _ an eyebrow, and Dr. Santander wished Clint a hearty repast and shooed him out of the storage room before closing the door. Milo scooted in just before it shut entirely.

Clint went off up the steps, feeling a little bit like he’d been run off. He considered turning around to go back in, just on principle, but couldn’t figure out how to do it unseen. Call it sixth sense, or the paranoia every surviving SHIELD agent cultivated, but he felt there was a non-zero chance he’d end up with an “accidental” crowbar to the head if he showed his face at the moment. He had no desire to end his days in a pile of potsherd, back in some out of the way box in a corner of the storage room. They’d label him something catchy like “2009 Lab B quadrant 2.1, remains, undergraduate, complete.” While Clint was all for the forward march of archaeological science, he wasn’t really interested in being one of the exhibits.

A storm was creeping in from the west as Phil met him outside the building, looking adorably ABD in a pair of black plastic glasses and a rolled-up button down. He hooked one thumb under the strap of his messenger bag, grabbed Clint’s hand with his other, and turned them away from campus. As they set off towards Clemens, Clint refrained from asking how Phil liked the sunshine. He was too busy feeling relieved.

####

“It sounds like it could have gone much worse,” Phil said as he and Clint crowded themselves into a corner table in the little brick-walled gyros joint. He nearly knocked over the table as he shifted onto the wooden bench seat that lined the streaked window, and Clint had to steady it for him while Phil kept their pops upright.

“Well she didn’t kick me out of the major, but she didn’t much like me.” Clint replied, reaching over to remove a long tentacle of pothos that had drifted onto Phil’s shoulder. He hooked it back into the mother plant, which had crawled, at curtain-rod height, along three walls of the tiny shop, and idly wondered how long it would take to grow a curtain from it. 

“Not moved by your finer qualities?” Phil asked, glancing down suggestively, and Clint found himself choking on tzatziki. 

“Why Mr.  _ Moore _ ,” he managed, hoping Phil hadn’t noticed the blush he was certain was creeping up the back of his neck. Then again, it was probably deliberate on Phil’s part; even though no one was close enough to hear their conversation, Clint’s blush was likely visible across the room.

It was going to be real hard to mistake them for just close friends if Clint kept on blushing at the mildest leer. 

“Hey Clint,” Phil said. Clint snapped his head back up to find him laughing. “Grab your meat.” He pointed at the slices of lamb that were trying to escape Clint’s pita. “Then tell me everything.”

“I have been,” Clint grumped, but he opened his mouth wide— deliberately wide, maybe— and bit down on the offending meat, licking his fingers slowly when he finished chewing. Phil’s eyebrows raised, but he kept his own mouth shut. 

Okay, so, the flirting only went so far. Probably for the best. He concentrated on his… meat… and tried to clear his mind.

They ate in silence for a couple minutes, because apparently stirring through subterranean archives had made Phil just as hungry as heavy lifting had made Clint. Finally, Clint had filled up his corners enough to feel like talking. He leaned back, picked up a cheesy fry to wave for emphasis, and began.

“So here’s the thing. Tess’s got this little site journal, like an inventory, that she updates as we unpack stuff. It’s apparently the way they tracked things at the site. Then they have a database with each entry, and then they have the shipping inventory. What I want to do, if I keep this up, is get my hands on at least two of the three, see if I can compare. ‘Cause I figure if Magnos did find any weird shit, or one of the others did, well if they  _ know _ it’s weird, maybe they’ll have tried to hide it on the shipping list.”

“Mm,” Phil said slowly, “do you have any indication they  _ do _ have anything weird?”

“Well that’s the problem. I’m not sure I’d know weird if it hit me over the head,” Clint sighed. “I’m not the Mayan expert here. But…. I don’t know how to explain it, okay, Phil, just-- something’s off. Not in a ‘hi I’m a big shot professor and you aren’t’ way, in an off-off way.”

“’Off-off?’”

Clint shrugged.

“Like I said, I’m not an expert. I haven’t, like, snuck into ancient temples and stolen lost idols or anything. Always kind of wanted to-- I mean, not the idol stealing part, but who the hell didn’t want to be Indiana Jones? Anyway what was I-- oh. I haven't stolen emerald eyes from statues but even someone fresh off the boat at SHIELD’s seen their share of smuggling, right?”

“Go back to the temple thing, Indy,” Phil said, looking surprisingly diverted. And that-- that seemed like flirting again. 

Okay. Okay, fine. Clint could do that.

“Maybe later, if you’re real good,” Clint said, letting himself draw out his words, “I’ll show you the fedora.”

It earned him a wide grin and-- was that a hint of pink on Phil’s ears? Fascinating.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I just saw all your boxes. You don’t have a fedora,” Phil said, waggling a finger at him all mock solemn, smile still peeking through at the edges. “Unless they issue one when you declare an archaeology major.”

“They might just,” Clint told him. “But what I mean is--”

“I get what you mean,” Phil agreed. “A general furtiveness with the inventory list, for instance? Boxes they don’t want you unboxing? I assume you haven’t been dropping the artifacts?”

“I'm insulted you'd even ask. I am  _ deft,  _ Phil,  _ deft.  _ Do you have any idea what these fingers can do?”

Phil declined to answer, probably because he was choking on gyro meat. Well it served him right after making Clint inhale tzatziki earlier. Good; Clint didn’t need to be the only one looking foolish at the table.

After Phil finally managed to clear his throat, through the application of a desperate gulp of pop, Clint took mercy on him and continued. 

“I think someone came back after we left last night and did a lot of unpacking, shit like that. But yeah. Also-- when I mentioned Dr. Magnos to Tess around Doc Santander, she squeaked a little and changed the subject, fast. I think he was watching her. Fury’s not wrong; something’s up. Haven’t got a clue what, though.”

“Hmmm,” Phil agreed, mouth once again full of gyro. Outside, the rain was finally beginning to hit, a few drops at first and then a sudden downpour that turned the windows opaque. Clint watched it, and Phil, and waited. “Agreed. Let me know if I can help somehow.”

“Yes,” Clint said, fervently. “So,” he added, feeling they’d about exhausted that, “how’s your day been, dear?”

“Full of microfilm,” Phil said, smiling happily at him. Clint settled back to listen to him talk, half his mind returning to the question of public displays of affection that he’d been worrying at since his visit to the counselor’s office. Phil’s flirting seemed to indicate Phil thought they ought to ham it up a bit in public. And they’d held hands. But Clint didn’t think that Clint Ford would be content with just hand-holding.

He turned the matter over in his mind as Phil explained the intricacies of v-mail to him, more concerned with whether to goose or not to goose than with the military’s solution to its air mail problems in the 1940s. 

####

Phil cursed on seeing how long the shadows were on the lawn in front of the library. Late  _ again _ . Clint had even made a point of reminding him about dinner when they were leaving the gyros joint at lunch.

The reminder had made a nice public display, but it rankled a bit, since Clint was also indirectly the reason Phil was running late. As they were leaving, Clint had brushed against his ass while squeezing between the closely-spaced tables. Phil had rounded on him out of sheer reflex. Clint had backpedaled fast, and backed right into the next table. The next table’s lentil soup had promptly fallen splat on the shoes beneath the table beyond that.

As it turned out, the table beyond that’s shoes happened to belong to Clint’s counselor. The soup belonged to a professor of modern Asian history Phil had met briefly the day before and promptly banished from his mind right up until Phil’s fake husband had spilled the guy’s lunch. And of course, they couldn’t leave after that until everyone had met everyone else and everyone had apologized to everyone else. Clint’s counselor had shaken Phil’s hand with her own soupy one, and then made things worse by running her soupy fingers through her wild hair in her distraction, at which point Phil had gone off to beg a wet rag from the counter staff. 

After the delay, Clint had headed out with his counselor in an apologetic fashion. Phil, meanwhile, had gotten stuck wandering back to campus with Peter Mahakian as he rambled on about Operation Ichi-Go and the bombing of the Hunan railway. Somehow that topic had drifted on into Phil’s own territory and before long it was two o’clock and Phil hadn’t even gotten started digging through the stack of Dugan’s v-mail letters from early 1945.

So Phil was going to be late, which was annoying in a partner and worrying in an agent. 

As he’d left the archives, Phil had found a string of texts waiting for him, all from Clint.  _ Thx for lunch <3,  _ followed by  _ Dr. B kicked me out. I guess I don’t get to see what’s in the new shipment? _ A space of a few minutes then  _ Tess thinks she can get me back in tomorrow or Thurs.  _ After that another break then  _ Shaw said there’s an archery range, gonna find it  _ and, in short order,  _ found it! ;) _ . Two hours later Clint picked back up with  _ much better. Gonna make you a real dinner tonight. No more rubber cheese. Got brats. _ This was mildly confusing, until Phil realized he meant sausages, not snotty children. There was one last text, a  _ got invited next door _ . That was forty-five minutes previous, though, so Phil didn’t think he could count on a reprieve-- unless next door had been taken enough with Clint’s neighborly display of his assets that they were trying to drag things out.

Which Phil could have understood, given his own reaction to the casual way Clint was going about trying to seduce, on the evidence, the air itself in a friendly manner. His flirting had certainly affected Phil at lunch; he hadn’t expected something like a barely-there brush of his backside to send a shock through his system like that. Much more deliberate contact from Clint hadn’t had nearly the same effect. Phil could only put it down to the priming effect of all those blushes and double-entendres at lunch. 

Regardless, being late now would only make Clint wonder if Phil had reason to avoid him-- and Phil couldn’t afford Clint asking himself that question. He might come up with the right answer.

Their townhouse row was quiet as he came up the walk, stopping briefly to get their mail from the box at the junction of two paths. He was just fumbling for his keys when the door to the neighbor’s apartment burst open and Clint came barrelling outside.

“Babe!” Clint cried, holding his arms out wide and welcoming. Phil froze in the act of dropping the letters to reach for a weapon. He ended up with a mouthful of Clint’s tongue, and had a moment to recognize the taste of cheap coffee before Clint bent him backwards with the force of the embrace. 

“Where were you, dear? I was starting to worry! Did you forget the time? I swear, Phil, you keep doing that, no one’s gonna believe you’re ex-mil. Come on, let’s get inside-- dinner’s going to be late enough as it is.”

Clint kept going in the same vein; Phil wasn’t paying much attention. He was still in recovery from the unexpectedly ardent welcome. He knew Clint had an arm around his waist and was guiding him to their door, but all his body was doing was fizzing, and all his brain could summon was a faint “yowza.”

Luckily, Phil’s brain had failed to gain control of his mouth, so Clint didn’t notice anything wrong as he waved a goodbye at the dark opening to the neighbor’s apartment, through which nothing but the branches of a fake ficus was visible. He didn’t wait for Phil to open the door-- which was good, Phil couldn’t have-- he just took the keys from Phil’s hand and unlocked it himself.

When they were safely inside, Clint slammed the door shut, threw the latch, and collapsed against it, sliding down to a sprawl and closing his eyes.

“Can anyone see me through the window?” he asked faintly.

That brought Phil’s brain, body, and reflexes all back online.

“No; the letter table’s blocking it,” he said. “Clint, are you okay? What’s wrong? What happened? I thought you were just at the neighbors?”

“I  _ was, _ ” Clint said, looking up at him with eyes Phil’d seen before on especially FUBARed ops. “They’re awful. Phil they’re-- we’re-- I’m never talking to them again.”

“That bad?” Phil asked, starting to open mail to give Clint and himself both some time to recover. It was amazing how quickly direct mail advertisers found one. There were at least three coupons for local pizza places, two for chinese delivery, one for the sub shop--

“ I’ll go back to Budapest first,” Clint groaned.

Phil hadn’t been on the Budapest op; if he had, it probably wouldn’t have gone half so sideways. Although they might not have gotten the Black Widow out of it in that case, so all things considered, it had at least been a productive mess. 

“That’s bad,” Phil agreed. “Still, there are other neighbors--”

“No, oh god, Phil,” Clint moaned, “let’s not risk it. Do we really have to get to know the neighbors? Can’t we just hide out in here and sneak off to classes and never ever meet anyone again?”

“That wasn’t your position yesterday morning,” Phil reminded him, confused. “At least, it wasn’t your posterior’s position.” 

“The neighbors can get to know my posterior as much as they want if I never have to speak to them again,” Clint said glumly. 

Phil tried to size him up without making it seem obvious; he didn’t seem like he’d been tortured anyway, or like anything actually serious had happened. He also clearly wasn’t about to share whatever it was that had him abjuring all neighborly bonds. 

With deliberation, Phil placed the mail back down on the table. He took a deep breath, then another, feeling the first prickles of irritation start to stir under his skin. Fine. If Clint was going to remain in his state of collapse, Phil would take care of it. And maybe, the longer Clint sat on the floor like a useless lump, the more progress Phil would make towards disillusionment with him.

“All right, well, I assume this means brats are on hold,” he said evenly. “I can whip something up. Do you want salad or--”

The doorbell rang.

“Already on it,” Clint said, maneuvering himself upright and peering through the door’s peephole. “I called the Chinese place before I went over. Hope you like Mandarin beef.”

“I suppose,” Phil sighed, hoping against hope that something fibrous might have accidentally fallen into one of the wax cartons. At least there was one part of student life Clint had leapt into headfirst. He just wished it hadn’t been the one with all the trans fatty acids.

“Good,” Clint said, opening the door, “I promised you dinner, after all. And I keep my promises, Mr. Moore.”

Of course he had. Clint couldn’t even manage to be thoughtless when he was actually being thoughtless. And now, instead of constructively irritated, Phil just felt like a jackass. As he watched Clint pay the delivery guy, Phil rubbed at his lower lip. It hadn’t stopped tingling from that damned kiss. 

####

Clint made it to the Archaeology lab early the next day, hoping to be in place when Dr. Burgoyne made it in. If he was already in the middle of hauling heavy things, he'd be harder to kick out. There was no way Tess would have said no to her yesterday; Clint got the impression it would have been like saying no to Director Fury, which was something he wanted to watch someone else do, once, just to rubberneck. Preferably from a safe distance and behind a blast shield. But Tess had thought today might be better.

Today, Clint could see as soon as he came down the steps, was not better. The lab was open, but the door to the far hall was locked. Dim light shone from underneath it. At least he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten there too late; a handful of morose and half-awake kids were slumped in front of the door, texting fitfully. 

“Uh…” he said, stopping short and letting his bag drop from his shoulder to join the pile at their feet, “is this party invitation-only, or can anyone join?”

He crouched down as he asked, hoping the flex of his muscles would be enough to win him an invite if one was needed. Texter number one pushed a coil of hair back from her forehead and let her eyes trail up to his face then dip back down to his hips, before she blushed horribly. Texter number two shrugged without looking up from his phone and waved in a general kind of “feel free” sort of way. Texter number three actually introduced herself, as hiI’mEllen, while looking at Clint suspiciously.

“I’m Clint,” he told them, collapsing fully to the floor. “I, uh, was helping unload shit from the dig. Is that what you guys are here for too?”

“Yes,” hiI’mEllen sighed, “or we’re supposed to be.”

“Yeah, someone’s being tight-assed today,” Texter Number Two muttered, and hiIm’Ellen hissed  _ Quentin _ at him in an undertone, so Clint had at least two names. 

“Dr. Burgoyne?” Clint asked sympathetically. “She kicked me out yesterday for a while before Tess got me back in.”

“Naw, or at least I don’t know for sure,” Quentin replied. “I’d just got here and got settled when Dr. Santander came through and shoved us all out to go play— like it was our lucky day or something. How’m I supposed to get an independent study done if there’s nothing to study, huh? I’m paying for these stupid credits.”

“Oh hush,” Ellen told him. “You can make it up later. If I don’t get my lab hours in this summer I don’t graduate in December. I  _ need _ this.”

“Eh,” the girl who had blushed said, having either calmed down or decided to put up a defensive chill shield, “not like the potsherds are going anywhere. You two’ll get time. Me, I got enough dirt under my nails on the dig. I can wait. Let’s hold on ‘till Dr. Coyle gets here and see if she can let us in.”

“Cool,” Clint said, settling back against the leg of one of the work tables.

“Who’re you, anyway,” Ellen asked, narrowing her eyes, perhaps suspicious that he was going to turn out to be a rival for her precious lab hours, “hired muscle?”

Clint took the opportunity to introduce them properly to Clint Ford, non-traditional student, and jollied them all into a better mood with a combination of his biceps, his banter, and the story of his initial meeting with Tess, Bent, Milo, and the atlatl. 

They reciprocated, Quentin describing one of the Intro classes that Milo had taught as a TA, in which he’d invited Bent as a guest speaker and then ended up arguing with him for half the class. Ellen tried to top him with the time that Dr. Jones had accidentally taught class entirely in Welsh— which no one had called her on, because they’d thought she was trying to make a point. Texting girl laughed, still looking at her phone, and reminded them all that during spring semester, Dr. Magnos used to forget she was even teaching a class half the time, and they’d have to go on a campus-wide search to find her and drag her back. She’d been found everywhere from the library’s archives to an astrophysics lecture. 

Both as bonding and as information-gathering, Clint thought he’d hit on a winning plan. His fellow undergrads certainly seemed to warm to Clint Ford, anyway. But as the minutes ticked by, turning into quarter and then half hours, their spirits flagged again. Clint dug deep, trying to think of something to keep them interested and open.

His gaze, wandering, rested on the skeleton of a domestic cat, high on a shelf, and he had an idea.

“Okay,” he said, “that reminds me of a time I swear to god I nearly thought I was done for.”

The three undergrads bent forward, and blushing girl even let her cell dip in her hands.

Five minutes later, Clint was mid-story, watching them wind tighter and tighter as he gesticulated.

“So there I was, no lie,” he said, leaning forward and feeling smug when they leaned too, “sneaking towards freedom, and absolutely fucking certain I was gonna be spotted. There’s no cover, so I’m trying my best to crouch in the shadows and stay quiet as the grave and hope they don’t look down. I get settled, take a deep breath, start counting footsteps up above me— and I realize I’ll be visible from the top of the stairs as soon as I break cover. Be impossible not to see me. And I still can’t think of a single damn lie that’ll get me out of there intact.”

“Oh shit,” Quentin asked, his hands pressed against his knees as he leaned, “and?”

Clint paused a moment to let the tension build, and to scrub any trace of impishness out of his voice when he answered. He was beginning to think winding up undergraduates was nearly as fun as winding up Bent had been. 

“Well, just as I was thinking it was a lost cause, I heard the steps retreat, and I figured that was it. That was my  _ one _ shot. I leapt up fast as I could!” He drew out the pause a moment, till he judged that he had them all in his hand. “And  _ that _ was when I saw feet at the top of the stairs.”

“No!” Texting girl said, all texting forgotten. ”Oh my god, how did you get away?”

“Well I was screwed, and I knew it. They came thundering down, asking what I was doing, where I thought I was going, and well, I had no excuse at all, especially not after the thing with the cat… dog… whatever it was.”

“Yeah, I’d be pissed after that, too,” Quentin told him. Clint snorted.

“No doubt. I just blanked out, tried to clear my brain of everything but name, rank, and serial number— and that was when I saw movement out the window.”

“Oooooooh,” Ellen sighed, “who was it?”

“Phil,” Clint told her, reliving again the relief that had come over him, letting it show on his face. “It was Phil, and I swear he looked like a knight in shining armor. I have never been so glad to see that man’s face in my life, and that includes the day I married him.”

Texting girl put both hands to her lips, phone dropping to her lap.

“I had one chance then,” Clint said, “so I yelled that my husband was home early and was going to be real worried if I wasn’t home, and I  _ flung _ myself out the door. I nearly ripped it off its hinges getting out. Nearest miss of my  _ life— _ five more minutes in there and I know I’d have been toast.”

As his three listeners busted up laughing, Clint let himself give a long and heart-felt sigh.

“Why the hell,” Quentin chuckled, “didn’t you just walk out after the thing with the urn? I mean seriously?”

“Where the hell did you grow up, New York? After the  _ urn story? _ ” Clint said. “My Mama would come out of her grave to teach me a lesson for being that kind of rude. You don’t  _ do _ that shit here. Grin, bear it— and then tell the story later, if you live. But that is  _ it _ ,” he said. “I’m fucking done, I don’t have it in me to do that again. I never want to meet another one of our neighbors. I will be a hermit for the next two years if I have to.”

More laughter, and Quentin sniggered something largely incomprehensible about one of his roommates that time with the clown. Ellen, shushed him down with “that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about,” and in the awkward silence that followed, Clint tried to decide whether she was referring to the roommate or to the clown.

Texting girl watched them both with frustration, then turned to Clint.

“Well,” she said, clearly attempting to change the subject, “I don’t think that ‘never meet the neighbors’ plan is gonna work.”

“Why’s that?” Clint asked, very willing to follow her lead.

“’Cause I’m a neighbor!” she told him. “At least, if your ‘Phil’ is Phil Moore, anyway? I met him yesterday morning. Nice catch, I gotta say.”

“No shit?” Clint said, momentarily stopped short. He thought Phil would have mentioned meeting someone— but then, in Clint’s general state of collapse after his encounter, Phil could have mentioned secretly being Captain America and Clint might not have noticed. “Uh… what did you say your name was?”

“Cassie,” Cassie said. “Cassie Cassidy, sadly. My roommates and I live just down the road in the apartments.”

“Huh,” Clint replied, making a show of scrutinizing her closely, while actually doing so— she seemed harmless enough, and the blush was back. He wondered just what kind of conversation they’d had. Phil was absolutely capable of making women blush, but he’d seemed to be leaving the friendly seduction to Clint on this op. “So… you’re saying there’s no escape? I should just accept my fate?”

“Oh yeah,” she agreed, lightening, “we’re everywhere. You’re doomed.”

She was still giggling when the lab doors swung open and Dr. Santander came through, belly first. He looked like Santa Claus in Margaritaville, Clint thought, and the impression wasn’t being lessened by the benevolent smile he turned on the undergrads.

“Ellen!” he boomed. “Dr. Coyle has charged me to find you. Your arms and back are requested within!”

“Oh, bless Tess,” Ellen said. “I mean— bless Dr. Coyle. Thank you, Dr. Santander.” She scooped up her backpack, was scooped up herself, and disappeared inside. The fire doors thudded closed behind her.

“So,” Clint asked as the rest of them gazed sadly at the doors, “did Tess get in the back way? Do we have to post a watch somewhere else next time?”

“Not unless she likes steam tunnels,” Cassie said. “She must have just come in super early-- she’s got all kinds of weird access. Whatever; today’s a lost day for lab work. Clint, you got anything planned for now?”

“Uh… not anymore,” Clint said, wondering if he should. “Maybe I’ll poke around campus a bit. I still haven’t got my bearings.”

“Come grab coffee or something? My morning just unexpectedly cleared,” Cassie said as delicately as if they hadn’t both just been rejected and left to rot in the archeology lab. “I could show you around? Gotta make up for that first impression you got of the neighborhood, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, standing up and cracking his back. It wasn’t just for show; his body hadn’t been at all happy sitting on linoleum for so long. He wasn’t twenty. What he really wanted was quiet time with a loaner bow down at the archery range, so he could consider the implications of this continued lock-out. His initial impression that Burgoyne had something against him specifically was clearly wrong— the freeze-out included all but a lucky few. 

On the other hand, he also wanted to get oriented, and he couldn’t overlook the opportunity to pump Cassie for more information on the archeology department. It sounded like she’d paid a fair bit of attention to Magnos. 

Anyway, Clint Ford was a naturally gregarious guy, and he would have said yes. So, so did Clint Barton, following Cassie up the steps and leaving Quentin alone with the potsherds, still sulking.

####

They ended up heading for the Target closest to campus, a short wander into Clemens, after Clint had explained their lack of basic household items. Cassie went him willingly, and on the way Clint pumped her on the neighbor situation. She happily exclaimed with him over Cactus Guy and warned him about the Warners, dual post-docs raising five sticky kids in a two-bedroom townhouse just down the row. Nothing in her chatter made Clint regret his “no meeting the neighbors” stance, but it did make him realize how little his desires mattered. He and Phil would inevitably get swept into the co-op’s neighborly vortex if the mission took more than a few weeks.

As they walked, Cassie pointed out the gym— a huge glass and sandstone affair— and the dorms that lined the street that divided the newer end of campus from the 19th century buildings on the river side. The dorms were quieter in summer, but Clint spared a brief moment of thanks to Phil, for being his partner on the mission and keeping him from having to have a dorm room. He didn’t think he would have lasted a day packed in with a hundred undergraduates.

“Haha, yeah,” Cassie sighed, staring with little love at the dorms. “I lasted, like, two years, then a year at a house down in Clemens. After the porch fell off, I decided I couldn’t handle that either. Lucky for me, I met a couple grad students who had an apartment in the co-op and wanted renters. So me’n my friend moved in with them this spring. It’s crowded, but I just got back from sleeping three to a tent in Guatemala on the dig, so.”

“Is that… isn’t that kinda,” Clint waved his hand “iffy with the co-housing agreement?”

“Oh more than,” Cassie chirped as they pushed through the doors and into the general pandemonium. “Okay, what’re we looking for?”

“Groceries,” he said. “Me and Phil are both ex-Army; we eat like undergrads much longer and our insides are gonna revolt.”

“Wouldn't want that,” Cassie agreed, and grabbed a cart. “Anything else?”

“Um… yeah. Curtains,” Clint said.

Cassie’s face fell.

“I really don’t want to be spoken of in the same breath as Cactus Guy,” Clint explained, “and Phil’s getting a little fed up, I think.”

“Well, all right then,” she sighed. “Curtains it is.”

Curtains it was, Clint holding out one after another as Cassie frowned over them and poked. While he had her half-distracted he brought up the topic of the archeology dig that had gone so badly. 

“You’d need at least three of those,” Cassie said as Clint looked at a purple-striped sample. “And even then I’m not sure. The dig, now. Yeah, I bet everyone's talking about it, huh? We're all gonna be real popular for a bit. Ugh. So, everything was fine up until Dr. Magnos disappeared. About the worst thing you could say about it was the mosquitos were horrible and the site wasn't that secure. You'd come in in the morning and half your back dirt from the day previous had been pushed into your damn test pit and you had to do it over. But that happens sometimes. There are worse things. But then Dr. Magnos turned up missing and suddenly everyone decided it had been a curse all along or grave robbers or human traffickers or shit like that. Basically, we panicked. Like, half the students were afraid they were gonna be kidnapped. Finally, Dr. Burgoyne had to sit everyone down in one big meeting and bring in, like, these big guns from the government— both governments— to try and convince us we were safe.”

“That help?” Clint asked, abandoning the purple stripe with regret and pulling up a plaid.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cassie said. 

“About the curtain, or—”

“Yeah, both. No, it just made everything worse, and we were convinced we were gonna be murdered in our beds. So Doc Burgoyne sent, like, half of us back to Guatemala City which wasn’t actually any better, to wait till we could get home. I have no idea what happened at the camp after that, honestly. Burgoyne must have settled most of it, since she’s back, but I guess she left Dr. Jones there.”

“I think Jones is supposed to teach one of my classes,” Clint said, holding up a set of curtains in an anemic sort of pink, “how’s that gonna work?”

“No idea,” Cassie shrugged, “and blech to the curtains. Try… um, try that gray set over there? But Burgoyne’s the department head, so she can do what she wants, I guess. I hear that’s pissed some people off, too. At least, Tess is getting to teach Environmental Anthro now, and if I were Milo I’d be pissed as hell.”

“How can you tell if Milo is pissed?” Clint asked, raising the gray ones. “You sure those won’t be too sheer? No? Hm… how about these green ones? And why’d he be pissed?”

“Well, the pay isn’t much, but adjunct work is adjunct work, and every class helps. But Milo was supposed to TA for that and Burgoyne pulled him off of it.  _ And _ she didn’t redistribute Tess’s individualized learning students, which she could have done, so Milo’s got to scramble to make up the money. I’d say it’s better than Benton Lewis gets, but I wish he  _ would _ have gotten that class, even if he’s not a Ph.D. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with him in my macrobotanical labs. Magnos was supposed to do those with us, not him. I like the green ones, they look good,” Cassie finished, eyeing them up and down as Clint held them in front of him.

“Green it is,” Clint said, grabbing several packages of curtain. “They all seemed friendly enough when I met them. I mean, I didn’t see anyone trying to stab anyone else in the back for extra hours.”

Although he had nearly walked into an atlatl heading straight for Bent; it was possible that hadn’t been an accident at all.

And what would he tell Fury if it turned out that Magnos had been killed as part of a mundane academic dispute?

“Okay, last call for home goods. Need anything else?” Cassie asked, as she watched the curtains safely stowed in a cart.

Clint considered for a moment, looking down the aisles. 

“While we're here,” he decided, “I could grab a mirror.”

“A mirror?” Cassie asked him, looking confused. 

Clint thought back to the past few nights of staring at a blank wall when he woke up, hoping no one was poised above him and Phil, ready to do him in. 

“Yeah, a wall mirror. For my side of the bed.”

“Right on!” Cassie said, then slapped a hand over her mouth. After a moment she turned and began pushing the cart down the aisle at a near-jog. Clint followed along behind, trying not to snicker.

####

Dissertation writing was unexpectedly hard on the knees, Phil thought as he sorted through a box of v-mail, re-arranging each by date in neat little overlapping columns that spread out on the floor. He finished June 1943 and sat back, groaning as his spine protested.

“You alright back there?” Jeffrey asked. He didn’t bother to turn around from the desk, where he was busily sorting a mixed box of munitions and buttons. Most of the Dugan archives, Phil had quickly discovered, had been unsorted when they came into the University’s possession. Jeffrey had been slowly organizing the collection, along with whatever grad students or small grants (or small grad students named Grant) were sent his way. So if Phil wanted something no one else had needed before, he had to sort it himself.

At least, he reflected, it meant that he knew for certain no one had gotten to the research before him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Phil replied, “just not as young as I used to be.” Nor in possession of knee pads. He sighed, and poked at the three-inch pile of v-mail left unsorted. Dugan had been unexpectedly prolix, and— far worse— so had his eight aunts and thirteen cousins. 

“I hear you there.” With a flick, Jeffrey released the brakes on his chair and wheeled backwards. Phil reached out for his piles, but stopped when Jeffrey reversed course and turned, clearly the master of his space. “Seems like I’ve been down in this cave for centuries, sometimes. But you’re making progress. Interesting stuff?”

“Hard to tell, yet.” Phil poked at the v-mail. “Obviously it all went through censors, but some of the mentions of Carter made it through— especially in the letters to his Aunt Flora. If she was still alive, I’d kiss her, just for demanding ‘less Captain, more Carter.’ Now I just need time to read it all, get the timeline aligned with their known missions… arg. I thought I was on my last chapter; now I’m not so sure I’m not adding a chapter and re-writing two more.”

“Curse primary sources. Getting in the way of the story,” Jeffrey deadpanned. 

“Right?” Phil said, smiling up at him. Jeffrey had turned out to be as much of a hidden treasure as the archive itself. Despite his aching back and busted timeline, Phil was cautiously optimistic about his dissertation. His op might be going off the rails a little, but it was in a creative direction. His team was good and his supplies more than sufficient for all the mayhem that lay ahead. He had a good feeling about it all. 

“How did you end up down here, anyway?” He asked Jeffrey, feeling like it was more than time to take a break.

“Thank your adviser for that. I was his TA when he finally hounded Dugan’s daughter into donating the collection. He had me appointed temporary curator, and I’ve been down here ever since. What year is it up there in the real world? Did Mondale win? Are dolphins citizens yet?”

Phil snorted.

“If only— I’d trust our electorate more. How often do you get visitors?”

“Not nearly often enough; Phyl is a strict gatekeeper. I see a few grad students, and from time to time an actual human— no offense intended.”

“None taken.”

“I did get my first visit from the Anthro department the other day. Or week… or… I’m not sure how long ago it was. Thought for a moment someone’d finally declared me an archaeological heritage site. Or that I was human remains.”

Phil was grateful his aching joints kept him from perking up visibly.

“Must feel that way sometimes. What did they want?”

“You tell me,” Jeffrey said, momentarily giving Phil a heart attack before he continued on. “Peter Mahakian brought her down. She mentioned something about Guatemala, which didn’t make a lot of sense, given the collection. But she wanted to look through Dugan’s sketch journal and I couldn’t see any reason to say no. I should have though— I had to put everything away when she left. You’d think an anthropologist would have better re-shelving etiquette.”

Could this possibly be connected with Clint’s mystery? Phil made a show of sympathy.

“Rough,” he said. “When was Dugan’s sketch journal from? Would it have anything I could use? I’m real light on visuals.”

“Maybe. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

“You trust me to re-shelve it correctly?”

“Oh yes, you’ve shown yourself trustworthy, unlike that woman.” Jeffrey rolled back and out of the way of the v-mail stacks, looking pointedly down at him. Phil got the feeling he was being gently reminded to clear them up before he left.

“Which woman?” he asked, as he started pulling the storage box towards himself.

“Magnum. Magnate… Magnos. That was her. The anthropologist.”

“I’d really like to see that journal,” Phil said, keeping his voice as even as possible and wondering if he could manage to take pictures without Jeffrey objecting to the flash. “Any chance of now?” It’d be a great present to take home to Clint.

“On your head be it,” Jeffrey said. “I can stay late, but I thought you had a husband to get home to.”

Phil froze, and looked at his watch guiltily.

He was about to be late again. Well— maybe he could make it if he ran.

“Shit!” he said, leaping to his feet. The unsorted v-mail stack tipped over and fell onto the pile from May 1944. Phil felt his shoulders droop. “Shit.”

He dropped down to carefully clean up his mess, trying to tune out Jeffrey’s chuckle. It was a good thing if he was late, he reminded himself. He  _ wanted _ Clint to be aggravated at him. And anyway, he had little evidence Clint even cared when he got home. Although he supposed Clint would worry whenever a teammate didn’t check in on time during a live op. Phil winced. When he put it like that, he couldn’t afford to be late, not even to piss Clint off.

He worked faster, to the background accompaniment of Jeffrey’s rusty chuckle.

####

Phil was, indeed, late getting home. He arrived to find Clint hanging vivid green curtains over the windows, slipping in and out of them as he adjusted their hang like he was performing some kind of co-housing burlesque. For a moment, Phil was frozen on the front walk, watching the show, and trying to find a good excuse for being late. He might have lingered longer except he heard a car slow down as it passed behind him. 

The last thing he needed was a reputation as a peeping tom— especially a tom peeping on his own spouse. He went inside.

“Are you trying to fortify our stronghold against the neighbors?” he asked as he closed the door, hoping to distract Clint from the time. 

“Very funny,” Clint said, his voice flat. He was hidden behind a swath of avocado polyester blend, making it hard to tell whether he was amused or annoyed. “But you’ll thank me when they bring in the siege engines.”

Definitely amused then. Phil put his bag down by the coffee table and came over to tack up the far end of the curtains, where the curtain hooks kept falling off the rod.

“You’re making me curious,” he continued as they worked, to distract himself from how close Clint’s body was to his. Every time Clint turned, it pulled the curtain tight around Phil’s torso and upraised arms, trapping him. “I could have sworn nothing ever moves over there. I haven’t heard anyone, not even a clinking radiator. Hell, not even a mouse in the walls.”

“Yeah, well, it hasn’t been long and you’ve been gone most of it.” Clint was in the middle of untangling himself from the curtains, so Phil couldn’t tell if the shortness was because of his situation, or because of Phil. He felt a stab of hopeful guilt nonetheless. 

“You didn’t seem to need me,” he replied, “and the Dugan archives are a mess. If I’m going to get anything done before you wrap everything up here, I’ve got to knuckle down. What?”

Clint was staring at him with a complicated look on his face, mostly frustration but a little bit mixed with something that looked like grudging gratitude. Phil had no idea what he’d done to provoke it.

“What faith you have in me. Frankly, I’m not even sure there’s anything going on— I mean, anything we care about— anymore.”

Phil blinked. 

“That’s not what you thought yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, I got more details. Sounds like it could just be academic politics gone wrong.” Clint reached over as he spoke and gently lifted a final fold of curtain off Phil’s head. Phil bit his lip to keep from turning and kissing the inside of Clint’s elbow as he smoothed down the fabric and tried to remind himself that Rome wasn’t destroyed in a day. He couldn’t expect his crush to be either.

“Who said that?” Phil asked, and stepped back out of the circle of those corded forearms.

“Girl I met today. Undergrad. She was on the dig, and it looks like she’s pretty hooked into the grapevine. Name’s Cassie. You met her yesterday morning, or so she said.” 

Clint offered it blandly, but Phil caught the underlying meaning of it: inside source, appears friendly, need confirmation and, if possible, independent assessment. Phil racked his brain for people he’d met yesterday, before finally remembering the girl with the flyer.

The girl who’d been so disappointed he and Clint were together.

“Ah. Her. Yes, she introduced herself while I was on the way to the library.” A thought occurred. Phil pulled the curtain away from the window and plastered his back against the glass. He held the curtain away from his face, like a veil. The night had faded nearly to black outside, and the low light of the living room backlit Clint’s shadow. Clint cocked his head to the side, and Phil watched his silhouette.

“Phil?” he asked.

“Cassie helped you buy these curtains,” Phil guessed, things coming together in his head.

“Yeah, why— oh. Shit. Are they?”

“Well, no one will be able to tell if you’re naked or just wearing spandex, so they’re a slight improvement,” Phil told him.

Clint sighed explosively.

“Aw, curtains, no.”

More like “aw, Cassie, no,” Phil thought, but decided her ulterior motive was about as transparent as the curtain. Still, he was glad Clint was making friends— or useful contacts, at any rate.

“They’re better than nothing.” Phil slipped out from behind the curtain. “I think it’s too early to tell whether we’ve got a real problem or just academics fighting, by the way. Jeffrey told me today that Magnos visited him before she left for Guatemala. I can help you make dinner while I tell you about it.”

“Huh. That’s… unexpected,” Clint replied, smoothing the curtain down where Phil had messed it up. “How about you tell me about it over dinner instead. The only thing left to do is get out plates.”

Phil sniffed the air, and realized there was a light lingering smell of fermentation on it, more than could be accounted for by an ancient shag carpet on a humid day.

“What’s… what’s dinner?” he asked, wary.

“Local delicacy,” Clint told him, “brats in beer and sauerkraut. Also, I picked up some chicken fingers and yogurt and a bunch of other shit for the week. Figured I’d better get stuff we could make quick, given the last couple nights.” He was already moving towards the oven.

Phil decided to attribute the sudden fall of his gut to the anticipation of dinner, rather than Clint’s carefully-hidden complaint. If Clint wanted him home earlier, Phil decided, he could say so. Otherwise, as it was his first real indication that his campaign to harden Clint’s heart against him was starting to work at last. He was going to stay the course as long as he could.

Clint didn’t say so, not in so many words, and Phil endured days of baked chicken fingers, an overcooked freezer-to-oven lasagna, and Clint mostly ignoring him in their now be-curtained living room all evening, except for a quick debrief, mostly amounting to “nothing new to report.” Phil did dishes. Clint did laundry, taking the oppressive silence with him to the basement when he went. They kept up their conjugal cover through strategically-timed kisses or back-pats in their doorway, or after dark where the curtain could throw them into silhouette. A nice shadow-play of a marriage.

Phil wasn’t sure what did it, whether it was that the extended silence finally broke even his hardened Midwestern soul, or whether it was something smaller. Something, for instance, like catching Clint mid-frown as he highlighted bits of _ Chariots of the Gods _ and realizing he had no idea why the hell Clint was subjecting himself to Von Daniken and dubious alien pyramid-builders. 

“Fallacies,” Clint had told him, continuing when Phil looked blank. “My class on archaeological hoaxes? Starts soon? I wanted to get as much reading out of the way as possible.”

“Oh.” Phil looked down at his laptop, where he’d been reorganizing sections of his chapter on how Peggy Carter’s relationship with Angela Martinelli might have influenced early SHIELD policies on hiring and training women. “I guess I didn’t know which classes you were taking.” Likely because he’d been too busy head-down in the Dugan archives, trying desperately to cram information into his craw before he was called back to SHIELD. He’d even managed to spend the weekend there, since the library didn’t close and Jeffrey had bestowed upon him the highest of honors: his own key.

“No reason you should know the reading lists I guess,” Clint shrugged. “Not mission-relevant.”

He said it with so little concern that Phil glanced up at him. Clint had already turned back to his book, face blank. Phil had a vague sense of something sliding off the rails, and couldn’t tell if it was in a good way or a very bad one. But something broke inside him. 

That night, Phil made a point to set an alarm on his phone for five o’clock. He tried not to think too hard about why he did it, or about the radiant smile on Clint’s face when he made it home for dinner on time the next day. 

Clint’s smile certainly wasn’t why he made a point to bring home a six-pack the next night, either. Or why he encouraged Clint to stay at the table after debrief and give Phil all the details on his upcoming classes. 

Or why, the night after that, he found himself standing in their kitchen, right on time-- perhaps a little early-- for dinner, with a cupcake in his hand that he’d absconded with from the history department’s summer-classes-start-tomorrow bash, feeling vaguely injured that Clint wasn’t home to accept it.

“Fuck,” Phil said to himself, “pull yourself together, Coulson.”

He put the cupcake down carefully on the counter, just on the end in the first place he spotted, right in full view of the door, and went to open the fridge. 

There had to be  _ something _ green in it. He was nearly sure he’d brought some into their house at some point. Maybe he ought to be searching for something that was  _ still _ green.

 

####

“You’re home late,” Phil greeted Clint as he walked through the door, and Clint nearly turned around and walked right out again.

“Burgoyne finally left me alone in the storage room,” he explained instead, dumping his backpack and stretching his sore shoulders. “I was setting bugs. You’re making dinner.” 

“Mm,” Phil said, opening the oven door and poking something inside.

“I was gonna get to it, just…” Clint trailed off. It felt kind of silly to apologize when they’d never exactly defined food roles. He’d just  _ done _ it after that first night, when Phil kept on getting home late. In fact, he’d cut short his time at the gym  _ and _ his normal mid-afternoon perimeter check to try and get home in time to call for a pizza before Phil arrived. “I just didn’t expect you to be home yet.”

“I said I would be.” Phil flipped the oven door closed and turning to look at Clint, his face set in a very Coulson nondescript. 

“Uh  _ huh, _ ” Clint responded, and turned to go upstairs before the sudden conversion from uncentered shame to prickly anger could turn into words. It wasn’t like Phil was doing anything wrong. He’d probably just gotten tired of Clint’s half-assed cooking, which largely centered on getting as much protein into them both as he could for a minimum of effort, and was finally doing something about it. 

Clint wasn’t mad at him, it was just this damned headache. And his damned aching shoulders. 

Really, he should be glad Phil was finally sharing the load; he knew that was one of those things people complained about their husbands not doing. And not because Bobbi had complained about him— Clint’s willingness to do the bulk of the cooking had been, she’d said, one of his redeeming points as a spouse. But it seemed like a theme. 

However Phil wasn’t actually his spouse, so who knew what rules applied. 

Clint rubbed his throbbing temples and started up the steps.

“Clint?” Phil said, sounding elaborately patient, “don’t you want your surprise?”

His surprise? What the hell?

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and tried to swallow down the sudden spike of nerves. 

He turned. Phil was standing at the counter, looking expectant.

Clint glanced towards the curtains but no, they were closed— Phil wasn’t likely to be expecting Clint to come over for a kiss or anything. He didn’t initiate spousal activities unless the curtains were open or people were around. He responded when Clint did, but Clint’d tried to ratchet down on that in the last few days to keep from making Phil feel weird. It was harder for him, seesawing back and forth depending on the statistical probability they were being watched, but he didn’t have a lot of choice. It might be a long mission, and it could easily get unbearable if he made Phil balk.

The silence stretched, going from bewildering to aggravating. Clint finally sighed, and cracked. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go upstairs and take one last look over his syllabi for the next day. And maybe swallow an aspirin.

And a Tums.

“What am I supposed to be doing?” 

“Eating your cupcake?” Phil asked, indicating the counter before him.

There was a cupcake on it.

With chocolate frosting.

And sprinkles.

Clint blinked. 

“Was that there when I came in?” God, he was missing everything today. Some spy he was. Couldn’t even spot a cupcake right out in the open. 

Phil nodded slowly. 

“Where did it come from?” he asked. Something was rising in his throat, behind his eyes, shortening his breath. 

“Phyl made them. She said she likes to sweeten the faculty up the day before classes start.”

The day before classes start. He should have known; not like he hadn’t felt that looming over him all day already or anything. Of course he’d get reminded here, too. Clint heard himself make a little noise, terribly like a whimper. His vision started to blur.

“Course,” he said, his voice coming out strangled, “gotta sweeten faculty.” 

“There was chocolate and marble. I nearly got marble, but then I remembered you’re usually a chocolate guy, right?”

Clint could hear tightness in Phil’s voice, but couldn’t tell where it came from. He nodded, on the principle that validation was never a bad idea, and kept staring at the stupid cupcake. 

Everyone seemed to be braced for the start of summer classes, ready to jump back into the major work of university life. Everyone but him. 

On top of that, he’d had Dr. Burgoyne eying him even more dubiously than usual, before mentioning darkly that she was going to be interested to see how he’d enjoy classes. Then there was Doc Santander, who’d interrupted himself in the middle of a story about how he’d once had his heart broken by an expert in cuneiform to ask Clint if he was ready for his first formal dive into the world of potsherds and plinths. 

And now, here at home where he’d thought he was safe, he’d been ambushed by Phil and his stupid cupcake.  Celebrating the one thing Clint’d been most dreading, like he’d forgotten Clint’d ever confessed his nerves. Or else he expected Clint to have gotten over them by now.

Clint poked at the cupcake.

“If you want to save it till after dinner, that’s almost done,” Phil said. “I expected you home earlier, so the chicken’s already out. Hopefully it’s not dry. I was just reheating the kale chips; they’d gotten droopy. I think I didn’t leave them in long enough the first time.”

“I don’t really— I’m not—” Clint stopped, sighing. 

He didn’t really want the damned cupcake, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if he refused. Phil seemed to have attached some kind of meaning to the stupid thing. Clint knew from hard experience that once baked goods had taken on Expectations, it was best just to eat them and try to appear suitably grateful.

Phil watched him as he unwrapped it. He kept watching as Clint took the first awkward bite, scattering crumbs and sprinkles and getting frosting on his nose. And then he smiled, just around the edges of his eyes, and turned around to begin getting out plates, leaving Clint to try and choke down his too-large mouthful unobserved. 

It was somehow both gooey  _ and _ dry at the same time. Clint tried in vain to swallow; it just made everything turn to concrete in his mouth. His upper palate started to protest, and he began to search for a discreet way to spit it out.

Meanwhile, Phil was chattering as he worked, describing the faculty gathering, dropping names that Clint had no way of picking up. Suddenly he threw out a mention of Magnos, and Clint stopped in the middle of his reel towards the napkin holder to listen. It was too late— Phil had moved on— so Clint continued his frantic search for a piece of napkin or kleenex or the end of a newspaper so that he could discreetly hork up his mouthful.

When he went from uncomfortable to outright queasy Clint gave up the fight and crashed his way past Phil to the trash can. He stomped down on the pedal, the lid flew up, and he was able to relieve himself at last of the deadly cupcake.

When he straightened up, eyes streaming and face hot with exertion and embarrassment, Phil was watching him, hands outstretched.

“Do you need help?” he asked, his voice agent-even. 

Oh, great, Clint thought as he shook his head frantically, Phil probably imagined the cupcake had been spiked with something. Clint waved him off as he continued to hover, then added a thumbs-up and okay sign at the end. He stumbled to the sink and filled then gulped a glass of water.

As he finished, he heard the lid of the can open again, and was in time to watch Phil chuck the remains of the cupcake in it.

“So you’re not a chocolate guy then,” Phil said.

It was a deliberate attempt to lighten up the situation, Clint knew it was, and half of him felt grateful. The other half, despite knowing Phil was trying to give him an out, was apparently, and kind of senselessly, enraged.

That was the half that managed to get the use of his mouth first.

“I’m not really in a fucking mood to celebrate, Phil,” he hissed.

“Geez,” Phil said, which was about as un-Coulson as it got.

Inexplicably, it pissed Clint off even more. He felt the words come vomiting out.

“So classes start tomorrow yay, woohoo, great. I’m glad all the profs are happy, you know? Hell maybe even the students, I mean the actual students, are happy. Now they can get their learning and pay their money and woohoo exams and pop quizzes and homework and lab time and you know what Phil? I’m not fucking excited for  _ any _ of that. I’ve been trying my fucking hardest to find a single goddamn thing that’s actually  _ wrong _ here— that needs a SHIELD agent and not, just the FBI or… or… or a workplace relationships course— but I’ve got zip. Nada.” 

He flung his hands out at the table, which he’d been pacing around,  picking up speed as his rant did. Phil moved an open cup of coffee away from him, backing off with it clutched against his chest. Clint barely saw him, still helpless against everything that had been building up for the past week as it finally came tumbling out. 

“The inventories all match! All I find is dust and boxes and shit in languages I can’t read anyway. Every day I’ve been looking harder and harder because I know I’m in a race against time. If I gotta actually try and  _ pass _ one of these stupid classes I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I don’t know my Olmec from my Mixtec, and neutron activation, which you’d think would be something SHIELD would actually get it scientists involved in, turns out to be how you date  _ dishes _ . And I don’t even know what new and exotic pitfalls textile design has in store for me, ‘cause I haven’t even had time to check the syllabus.

“All I can tell you is that after tomorrow I start to fail, okay? It’s only a matter of time till the cover’s blown and meanwhile,  _ meanwhile _ ? The only thing close to spooky shit I’ve even found is in my required reading on ancient aliens! And you’re over here celebrating and… and like tearing your chapters apart so you can add more stuff and getting farther away from finishing your paper instead of closer. And you can only do that if I don’t blow this for us and I’m sorry Phil, I’m sorry, but I don’t see that happening.”

He ran down long enough to pant for air, realizing vaguely that his hands were clutching the back of a chair. 

“Oh,” Phil said, still clutching that stupid mug. Clint looked over at him, feeling his face collapse as he did.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I really am. I just… I know I’m the lead, you’re not supposed to be babysitting me. And I’m supposed to keep it up and be your husband, and I’m trying not to bug you, and I’m trying to be a good partner, I really am, but I just  _ cannot _ take more of that stupid, horrible, cupcake.”

He collapsed into the seat, leaned forward against the table, and put his head in his hands.

“Also?” he said miserably, “your kale is burning.”

Phil cursed. A moment later Clint heard the oven open, something clatter on the stovetop, and the door clank shut again.

Then the table creaked next to him, and he felt rather than saw Phil sit down.

“I’m not supposed to be babysitting you,” he said, and Clint’s heart clenched. “But I am supposed to be your partner. This isn’t a solo op.”

Phil’s voice was so gentle that Clint wished he had the courage to look up. After a moment, he felt a hand settle lightly on his wrist, more a point of connection than a demand. His shoulders slumped. Phil rubbed his thumb against Clint’s skin once, then started speaking again.

“If I told you right now that everyone gets their Mixtec mixed up, and that you don’t go into class knowing about neutron activation, it’s what you’re supposed to learn while you’re there, would you believe me?”

Clint shrugged. 

Phil’s voice was settling him back down. As he unwound, he was beginning to feel the acrid aftertaste of panic in his mouth. 

It had been a long time since he’d had a significant attack— and even longer since he’d had one around another person. Nat had seen the edges of one. That had been while he was in the middle of the tightrope walk that had been convincing her to come in from the cold and convincing SHIELD that they didn’t want to shoot everyone on sight. That had never blossomed into a full attack; a truck had hit them before it could.

Prior to that, maybe Bobbi, once, not long before they separated. Usually he tried to keep them confined to his own head, to unleash them on nothing worse than innocent arrows.

He thought he ought to apologize, and tried to mumble one.

“I’m not sure what you said, but I’m guessing it wasn’t ‘yes, Phil, I implicitly believe everything you say, and you have magically fixed everything by the application of logic.’”

Clint laughed in spite of himself. Phil’s hand tightened on his wrist momentarily.

“It didn’t sound like ‘fuck off,’ either, so thank you,” he said. ”Tell you what, you go up and change or take a shower or whatever you need to do, and I’ll try and salvage the kale.”

Even though his head felt nearly too heavy to move, Clint managed to nod. Phil withdrew his hand and stood. When he thought Phil probably wasn’t looking, Clint dragged himself out of his chair and up the stairs to try and shower away the remnants of frantic sweat and future failure.

By the time he came back downstairs Phil had set both places and dinner was waiting. 

“Is that… the same kale?” he asked, eying the little shards of dark green on his plate.

“It is,” Phil told him. “I pulled the burnt bits off the edges. I hope I got them all. Go ahead and eat; everything will feel a little better when you have actual food in you.”

Clint, aware that he had an awful lot of making up to do for his earlier behavior, ate. The chicken was dry as sawdust, barely disguised by the mushroom sauce it was swimming in, and the kale tasted acrid. Still, anything was better than that stupid cupcake.

After they were finally finished, he cleared dishes and loaded the dishwasher. Phil made a great show of not watching him, waiting until Clint had joined him on the futon to look up from his book and say, very carefully,

“It’s going to be all right. This op was always likely to take a long time. Fury wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t think you could hack this, and I’m not worried either. But since you are, I promise you, I  _ swear _ , that I will make sure you pass your classes. No man left behind.”

Clint snorted, but at the same time his overworked nerves began to soften.

“Thank you. I just… I’m half sure the only thing going on in that department is academic politics and jealousy, Phil, and Magnos fell off a cliff on accident. But I don’t know how long we’ll have to wait, trying to prove there’s nothing hinky going on.”

“A week ago you were sure something was wrong,” Phil told him, putting a marker in his book and setting it down. “You’re pretty sharp; I count on your instincts. I think maybe you’re just in that sticky part, you know? The slow part of a long wait where it feels like the mark is never going to show, and you’re a failure as an agent and you should have gone for that career in underwater basket-weaving after all.”

“I’d make a mean basket-weaver,” Clint told him, feeling a smile finally start to poke at the corners of his mouth. “I’m good with my hands.”

Phil looked down at said hands, pausing for longer than Clint thought the comment warranted before looking back up.

“I’m sure you are. But I’m certain something will happen. We just have to wait for it.”

Clint eyed him dubiously.

“If you say so,” he said. “But I’ll believe it when I see it. I’m fucking tired of books; can we turn on some kind of mindless television and just ignore the world tonight?”

“Definitely.”

Phil grabbed the remote and flipped until he found a ball game. Then he leaned back and flung his arm out along the back of the futon. Clint eyed it, then remembered that they were supposed to be spouses, and Cassie had betrayed him about the curtains. He settled in to lean against it, trying not to seem too tentative. Phil’s body heat soaked into him, and after a moment Clint found himself relaxing and sinking in further, his heartbeat finally settling back to normal.

####

It had rained during the night and the ground was still damp when Phil set off for his morning run the next day. He’d rolled out of bed before sunrise, determined to be back in time to see Clint off to classes. It was the same course he’d run for the last week; after a string of runs through campus or into Clemens, Phil had given into the temptation to let his feet carry him through the pre-coffee haze, and settled into a route that took him back down through the Ag fields, through the Forestry woods, and over an old stone bridge above a railroad. Fog clung in the corners of the path as he ran, the meadows were cowless, and the trails practically deserted. He barely noticed— he was still ruminating on the previous night.

For a brief moment Phil had thought he’d finally caught on to something that could make Clint hate living with him. It was a little surprising that the culprit would be kale chips and a cupcake, but it was still a relief to have an irritant identified at last. 

As it turned out, of course, Phil’s ill-timed cupcake was only tangential to the real source of Clint’s angst.That was a bit bruising to the ego, but frankly made far more sense. Clint wasn’t the kind of guy who could be undone by blackened brassica. At the time, Phil had concentrated on getting Clint through the attack of nerves— one he seemed to think Phil should be much more put-out by than he was.

Last night, however, sleep had come hard. Clint would never have said so, never have thought so, but Phil knew he was responsible for a lot of Clint’s anxiety. Phil’d let himself go. He’d let himself get lost in his Howling Commandos caves of wonder, in the siren song of his thesis, completely forgetting that they were on an op, except for the fifteen minutes a night Clint would debrief for him. 

Clint was too damn good, basically— Phil’d forgotten he was only human. 

He hadn’t meant to make Clint hate him as a colleague. That was the last thing he’d wanted to happen. Even at the risk of increased exposure to Clint in various states of undress, he couldn’t keep being distant. 

Phil put his head down, watching his feet eat up the ground, and decided on a new course of action, one that they could both sustain for however long it took to find something solid. He didn’t believe for a moment that Clint’s initial suspicions about the Anthropology department had been wrong— when they got to the bottom of the thing, they’d find mud. The problem with these sorts of stakeouts was that it could take forever to get the first break. Meanwhile, you’d go slowly insane second-guessing yourself. If he wanted to support Clint, he had to be in it for the long haul.

Sunrise caught him by surprise, lancing through the trees as he came around a bend in the trail and turning the entire world pink and gold and sparkling. He ran blind, operating by feel until the trail turned around the side of a hill and crossed into a wooded dell. 

Through the sudden gloom and the pinwheels still spangling his eyes from the sunlight, he saw a runner coming towards him. She was closing the distance fast, panting, wrung out, and clearly near the end of her run. It took him longer than it should have realize she wasn’t dressed for running; she wore a paisley-print sundress— and her feet were bare. 

If anything, she looked more like she’d been up all night on a bender than that she’d gotten up early to exercise.

“Hey,” he said, slowing to a stop, as she passed him, “hey— are you all right?”

She skidded, turned, and Phil had a single moment to register the complete blankness of her face before she attacked.

Later, Phil would decide she wasn’t quite the least-likely attacker he’d ever faced. SHIELD had taught him early that danger came in all forms, fluffy and paisley-print along with the rest. But he hadn’t expected her scrawny limbs to be quite that strong, and it was hard to defend against someone who had no skill, no intent— just flailing rage and fingernails and teeth and a kind of wild determination to win.

Phil was so focused on fending her off without hurting her that he didn’t notice he was nearing the side of the path until his foot twisted on the edge. He teetered a moment, before overbalancing. Her face was above his, the canopy of branches far beyond it, as he fell. 

He went down hard, wrenching his shoulders as he hit the pavement and throwing up his arms to protect his face. She landed on top of him, her hands scrambling for his throat, teeth tearing into his arm where he’d thrown it up. It took him longer than it should have to get his knees under her torso and heave her off. It sent her sprawling, and gave Phil a moment in which to get himself upright. 

By the time he’d rolled to his feet she was already on hers, facing him, fingers flexing. He braced for impact, wondering how to take her down without killing her, when he saw her eyes focus and go wide.

“Oh. My. God,” she wailed.

And then she tore off into the woods.

“What?” Phil asked the suddenly-empty air. 

In the end, he decided not to follow her. It would be too hard to explain that she’d been the attacker, not him, if anyone spotted them. Clint would be waking up soon, for his first day of classes. Phil needed to tell him that something had happened, at last — and then maybe pour a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over the bites on his arm. He headed home, rubbing his arm and searching each and every shadow-- just in case. Driftless had just proven it wasn't nearly as innocent as it seemed. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 4 classes start, Dr. Jones returns, Clint climbs trees, Phil saves big money, and the plot takes a turn. Posting sometime the weekend of November 24-26.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries to concentrate on his first week of classes and on the mission, but keeps getting distracted by Phil, who is increasingly not sure how he's going to survive this mission. Unfortunately, their hearts aren't the only things in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings in end notes, including vague plot spoilers.

Phil came slinking into the dim alcove that housed the History Department later than he’d planned, feeling like his attack was written all over his face.

“Oh geez, what happened to you?” Phyl asked, looking up at him and covering her mouth with one hand. 

Phil grimaced, and whipped his hand down when he realized it had come up to touch the fresh abrasions on his cheek. He must look like hell. He certainly felt like it, even though his injuries were objectively trivial compared to any given Tuesday at SHIELD. 

Possibly part of it was lingering dejection at missing Clint. He’d arrived home after Clint had left— probably by minutes— and instead of wishing him well on his first day of classes in person, he’d been forced to do it by text. Clint hadn’t bothered to respond yet. Phil had lurked around the apartment for a little while longer than usual, dressing his wounds and fitfully tidying the living room until he thought that most of the returning history students would be in class, before he set off across campus. He didn’t really need to get a reputation in the department as a brawler. 

It looked like he was out of luck, though, since two kids had come out of Peter Mahakian’s office just as Phil walked in. At Phyl’s exclamation they turned to stare at him, wide-eyed.

“I had a close encounter with a really hard surface,” Phil told Phyl, smiling ruefully. “It won.”

“Hmph, are those tooth marks I see on your wrist?” she asked. 

The undergrads froze.

So did Phil.

“Er,” he said, and Phyl’s eyes widened.

“Or is that unrelated?” she asked, and winked.

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to prevent a vision of Clint nibbling on his wrist from floating into his head. He failed completely.

“Hey.” A touch on his shoulder made him open his eyes. Phyl’d left the sanctuary of her desk and come to stand next to him. “You probably want to get down to Dr. Drake’s— your— office. Why don’t I come down with you, and get the door?”

Phil was only carrying his messenger bag, there was nothing preventing him from getting the door on his own, but he figured that wasn’t the point. He nodded, and let himself be tidied down the back stairs and into the book-encrusted confines of his temporary office.

Phyl shut the door behind him.

“Seriously, you look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet Phil. Are you sure you’re all right?” 

“Fine,” Phil told her, setting down his messenger bag and collapsing into a chair. He debated concocting a cover story for a moment, before deciding there wasn’t any reason to-- and a lot of reason to see if she what she thought about it. “Just shaken. I got attacked during my run.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Phyl asked, sitting down hard on top of a vaguely chair-shaped pile of books. “Are you alright? Did you tell the campus police? Should I call them for you? Goodness gracious, is  _ that _ how you got bit? Are you sure you don’t need antibiotics or rabies shots or something?”

Phil burst out laughing.

“Oh stop it,” she crabbed at him. “I know it sounds silly to you, Mr. Sgt. Moore, and I’m sure you fought whoever it was off just fine, but you’re not in Iraq now. This is Driftless.”

“I was never in Iraq, that was Clint,” Phil told her, idly noting that she’d dug up enough of Phillip Moore’s service record somewhere to note his ersatz rank, “and I’m not laughing at you, I’m just— ah, I’m just laughing at the irony, I guess.”

“Irony?”

“Oh yeah. I was attacked by an undergrad, a girl— couldn’t have been more than nineteen— no weapons at all. She just ran at me, knocked me down, tried to bite me, then ran off. And no, I’m not worried. I already cleaned the wounds, and I have the rabies vaccine, all of that. I just… I guess I just feel dumb. Letting a hungover kid get the drop on me.”

“Hmph,” Phyl said, but her face went all sympathetic. “It’s always the ones you don’t see coming, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Phil asked her, diverted. 

“Sure it is. Because you should’ve known better, or because you shouldn’t have trusted, or sometimes just because it seems so unfair that everything in the world is out to get you. So it hits worse than it should.” 

Phyl got up and closed the door, leaving Phil to watch her backside and wonder idly if he needed to be asking Sitwell to expend his precious and finite resources on a background check for her. 

“You’ve been attacked by a rabid undergrad too, then?” he asked, wondering if she’d take the opportunity to open up. Phyl gave him a sweet, sort of rueful smile, and sat down.

“Never this early in a semester,” she told him. “That kind of thing doesn’t usually happen until mid-terms.” She winked, then took his office phone off the hook. “I’ll call Terry over at the campus police. Sounds like some poor kid got in way over her head. Maybe they can find her and pull her out.”

“Maybe,” Phil said, wondering why his instincts were telling him it was hopeless. 

He replayed the moment in his head, seeing again the girl’s wide eyes, the pupils dilated to pinpoints in their blue irises, the slack look on her face. Her body had jerked almost like she was a puppet on a string or some kind of doll— like her limbs were dead weights, or not her own. And then the look of horror on her face just at the end, like she was an entirely different person all at once. 

No, he didn’t think there was anything the campus cops could do. This felt a lot more like one of those incidents he would read about in SHIELD briefing packets just before being sent somewhere with Melinda or Garrett or one of the other senior agents who handled suspected Index cases. 

The problem was, he had no idea why he felt that way.

  


####

“Hey,” Clint said quietly, “this seat taken?” 

“Absolutely lot,” Cassie said, grinning up at him— or approximately said, he was mostly reading her lips. Even though class hadn’t started, the cicada hum of other students chattering was bouncing off the walls of the small lecture hall, rendering his hearing aids half-useless. 

She removed her backpack from the seat next to her, which had been barely big enough to hold it. The seat itself looked at least 60 years old and probably built to fit undernourished pre-war backsides. Clint looked down at it in despair for a moment, before deciding to just sit down hard and hope everything fit. And didn’t shatter.

He sat.

The seat creaked, but held. He even managed to fold the flippy thing on the side of his chair upright and over his lap so he could write.

Then he realized his own backpack was still on the floor at his feet, reached down to remove a notebook, and nearly winded himself.

Cassie was probably laughing; he could feel her vibrating. Clint sagged over the top of his desk and sighed.

“This isn’t going to work,” he told Cassie, trying to feel out the correct tone.

She said something, ending in “ig,” and pushed her shoulder to his.

“I know I’m big, but I still deserve to breathe once in a blue moon,” he snapped, turning on her. She was giving him a startled look, rapidly turning into wounded. 

Oh. Oops. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, and patted her shoulder to emphasize it. Then, on impulse, and hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, he opened his mouth again. “It’s just--  I can’t hear you. Or anything; the background noise is futzing with my aids. Which is fucking ironic, considering.” It came out in a rush, with a kind of heaved sigh on the end. 

He hadn’t realized until he said it just how little he’d wanted to have to deal with the topic in this setting. Clint reached up resentfully and turned off his aids. The noise promptly died, replaced by a muffled undercurrent.

“I didn’t realize you couldn’t hear,” Cassie shouted in his ear— his good ear, as it happened. Clint flapped her off.

“I’m fine in that ear,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” she said. There wasn’t any pity in her eyes or voice, Clint noticed. If anything, she just looked calculating. His shoulders unknotted a little. 

“It’s okay in that ear, but pretty bad in the other,” he explained, trying to be more patient. “But I’m still having a hard time hearing just you and not everything. I assume everyone shuts up when the teacher comes in?”

“Mostly,” Cassie said, frowning, “Would it help to sit up front?” 

Clint looked down at the nearly-empty front rows, ranged right up close to the podium and desk. 

“Maybe,” he said dubiously.

“Okay, let’s move,” Cassie told him, and began to pry him out of the chair he’d wedged himself into.

Halfway down the aisle, she stopped and turned, so abruptly Clint nearly ran into her.

“Do you read lips?” she asked him. 

“Kinda,” he told her. “It helps. Why?”

“It’s a discussion-based class,” she sighed. “It’s stupid to have it in here, but well— that’s the U for you. If we sit way up front you won’t see anyone else.”

Clint nodded. Now that the parameters of the op were clear, he thought he could find a suitable nest. He pointed Cassie down to the far right of the auditorium, where his good left ear would be to the crowd and he could see the professor in profile and most of the students, with just a little head-turning.

They got settled, and Cassie looked up at the rest of the lecture hall dubiously.

“You’d think we’ve all got the plague, there’s like fifteen of us in this stupid hall. Oh, there’s Quentin.  _ Quent!”  _ She waved frantically at Quentin until he saw her and scowled. He did come down, however, and dropped himself in the row behind them.

“What the fuck are you all the way down here for?” he asked. 

Cassie rolled her eyes. 

“Exposure. I told Clint showing a little cleavage would help.”

Quentin looked at the cleavage in question and snorted.

“Well, I’ve seen worse,” he said. 

“I’m hurt,” Clint told him, pressing his hand over his manly bosom and sending a silent thank you to Cassie for not making a big deal about his hearing. 

Quentin opened his mouth to reply just as the side-door to the lecture hall opened and Dr. Santander sailed in, beard-first, and stopped in front of the open desk. He promptly shut his mouth.

“Uh,” Clint whispered to Cassie, “this  _ is _ Anthro 3004, right?”

Before Cassie could do more than nod, Dr. Santander looked around, his face turning stormy as he took in the assembled throng.

“Ye gods, look at you,” he boomed at them, “do you think you’re going to yodel at each other? This is a  _ discussion-based _ class, ladies and gentlemen and others. Come down! Come down! You should all be in the first two rows.”

Two people moved. Another one shuffled down two rows, looked around, and stopped.

Dr. Santander frowned and heaved a great sigh.

“Given that participation is a full quarter of your grade, I am perfectly content to mark anyone down who does not move their posteriors to the first three rows immediately.”

“Can he even do that?” Quentin muttered. 

“No clue,” Cassie replied. “But it’s not a chance I’d take.”

Apparently it wasn’t a chance anyone else in the class wanted to take either; Clint watched as they shuffled down to the first few rows.

“Miss Ellen, I see you up there!” Santander called, and Clint looked up to find that the girl was still slumped in the back row, looking like she needed at least a gallon of coffee before she’d be awake. “Come down, young lady! Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

Ellen stood up slowly, knocking her knees on her flippy thing, and shambled down to the front where she slumped into another seat. She had, Clint noticed, forgotten her notebook, textbook, and everything else. 

“Well,” Dr. Santander intoned, and everyone turned to face him. “Welcome to Anthro 3004, Pseudoarchaeology: Fallacies, Flawed Theories, and Flat-Out Lies about the Human Past. This is what we in the professorial profession call a  _ sexy _ class.”

From Cassie’s look, Clint guessed someone off to the left had giggled. He couldn’t blame them; Santander’d done an alarming sort of shimmy as he’d made the remark.

Santander winked at the presumptive-giggler.

“Precisely,” he said. “Now, before you worry about the accuracy of your syllabus, I am merely filling in for the good Dr. Jones, who is currently wending her way homeward from our late dig site in Guatemala. She will guide you through the morass of human avarice, cowardice, deception, and ignominy that make up this course; I am merely here to orient you. So, let me begin.”

He folded his hands over his ample belly. Clint leaned forward and tried to keep himself from smiling too hard. Santander clearly shared a sense of showmanship with the ringmaster of Carson’s circus back in Clint’s youth. His voice was naturally pitched to reach the cheap seats and every gesture was sized to play to an audience. Clint had always admired the ability to bullshit on a grand scale. No one asked too many questions about your story when they assumed you were, by your very nature, full of it.

He dabbled in it himself, but it was always a thrill to see a master of the craft at work.

“The topics in your syllabus are a veritable world tour of the worst archeology has given to the world,” Santander continued. “Piltdown man; the disappearance of the Anasazi; Fujimura’s tools; the Chariots of the Gods and the idiot idea that the Egyptians couldn’t built their own pyramids, or the Aztecs theirs; the Mayan calendar and the end of days; the Kon-Tiki. Some of them, you may even have believed as a child. Some few of you,” he frowned again, “may even believe some of them now. And why?”

He paused, gathering his audience in. Clint braced, waiting for it.

“Romance!” Santander declaimed, rolling his r thunderously and flinging out his arms. “Sheer romance. Wetting the sand and dragging blocks is so plebeian, how could it possibly have produced the magnificent burial chamber of Cheops? The slow decline of generations as the climate changed, became hostile, as their water dried up— who wants to hear about that? These don’t capture the general imagination, these aren’t stories that make the listener gasp in awe. No, the public wants its aliens, its ley lines, its thrills.”

He sat back against the desk and templed fingers, dropping his voice into a confidential murmur.

“And we think we are better. We are scientists, after all. Social scientists, it is true, but scientists all the same. For us, the measuring tape and the trowel, the grid and the potsherd. But ladies and gentlemen and others,” Santander’s voice began to grow, “we are not. Pay attention as you wend your way through your readings, pay attention and see how often the culprit was himself a scientist, an archaeologist, dedicated to the revelation of the past but so tired, or so broke, or so convinced he was right that he could not bear to see his assumptions shattered. Ladies and gentlemen and others, do not go looking for aliens. Do not go looking for ancient curses. There’s enough romance to be found in the neat sweep of cuneiform on a tablet, in the—”

“What the fuck, Merlin?”

As one, all the heads in the room— Santander’s included— swiveled back to the side door. The woman standing in it looked like she’d come either directly off a plane or off a dig. She was wearing a rolled-up, wrinkled oxford and khakis that had seen better centuries and her hair was rapidly fleeing its long braid. Even the look she was giving Santander was dirty. As she came into the hall, Clint noticed she had an actual bandana sticking out of her back pocket.

“Ah, Dr. Jones,” Santander greeted her, “I had thought you were still en route.”

“Caught a red eye,” Jones told him, slapping a worn leather messenger bag down on the desk. “Got in at five. Seemed pointless to go to bed. So. What bullshit have you been feeding my class?”

Santander rumbled.

Clint bit back a smile. If Santander felt like his old ringmaster, Jones reminded him of nothing more than a SHIELD field agent, one of the ones who had stayed in-country far too long and had no time to spare, anymore, for the suits and their System. He loved ops with people like her.

This was the class he’d been most worried about; he’d figured with Lab Techniques he could rely on his hands— which mastered things so much faster than his brain—to pull him through. Textile Science didn’t have anyone he had to impress. But if this was it? If he had someone like Dr. Jones in charge and Cassie next to him, who was clearly trying either to adopt or co-opt him, then maybe he could do this class thing after all.

  


####

Even though his morning had been disrupted by a zombie undergrad attack (at least that was how the student security officer who’d come to take his statement had characterized it) and ensuing aftermath, Phil managed to make it through his own front door right on time and safely-- only to be bowled over on the threshold.

“Hello, Mr. Moore,” Clint purred, when he’d finished bending Phil backwards to plant a highly performative kiss on his lips. “Welcome home. It’s a wonderful day, and I’m gonna hit adrenaline crash if we don’t get out of here, so let me take you to dinner and tell you about classes.”

Phil glanced behind Clint, at the welcoming glow of the shag orange carpet and the faded futon under the dim lights. It had been such a long day. He’d hoped spending it in the seclusion of his-- Drake’s-- office attempting to wrestle Chapter 4 back into shape would help him calm down, but he’d been constantly interrupted by lost students peeking into his office and needing to be shepherded upstairs to class while they covertly eyed his injuries. When it wasn’t students, it was follow-up questions by campus security (Phil was pretty sure everyone in the whole damn office had needed to hear him tell his story for themselves. He hoped they were enjoying it). 

He just wanted to sit down on his own futon, safe from prying eyes behind their thin green curtain.

Sadly, sitting seemed to be the last thing Clint needed. He was practically bouncing on his heels. He was also in a niceish button-down, straining at the chest, and clean jeans, and he’d gelled his hair. He was doing a sort of doe-eyed pleading thing, too, that was making it hard for Phil to maintain any resolve. 

Phil swallowed, remembering Clint’s pre-class panic attack last night, and just how badly he’d messed up. He’d been trying not to think about it— he couldn’t worry about the aftermath of that  _ and _ the attack. But if he had been thinking about it, he’d have expected Clint to be a lot more reserved with him today.

Then again, this was Clint Ford asking Phil Moore to come out to celebrate, not an actual indication of how Clint Barton felt.  And maybe it was Agent Barton asking Agent Coulson to debrief in neutral territory, so neither of them had to navigate Cupcake Regrets. Clint needed his partner right now. Phil could be Mr. Moore a little while longer, in that case. 

Also, that welcome-home kiss was still making Phil’s lips buzz, long after something with no actual meaning should have. At least if they went out he wouldn’t have to think about  _ that _ either for a little while.

“Okay, Indy,” he said, pulling out his best indulgent smile, “take me out on the town and tell me everything.”

The problem with going out on the town, as they discovered, was that at least half the restaurants were either burger joints or old school Italian, which were far too close to take out and student union food to be appealing. That cut out the generic Chinese places, too, and the sub shops. At last they’d flipped a coin. Tails— and the equally-generic steakhouse-- had lost in favor of heads and a grandma restaurant in an old Victorian mansion nestled in the historic district near downtown.

They’d nearly been thrown out for not meeting the dress code, but Clint’s smile and Phil’s quick talk had produced a table in an upper room. It was probably a wise choice by the host— Clint had been talking non-stop since they’d left their townhouse, a debrief more detailed than the infamous adrenaline-and-morphine fueled epic after Quito. His knee was bouncing under the table and he fiddled with his silverware, his water glass, his bread, the tablecloth, the fern in the corner-- everything.

At least, Phil thought, the first day of classes had clearly gone well for Clint. Regarding the babble as an understandable reaction to the tension he’d been under, Phil listened as patiently as he could. He soothed his own nerves by tearing his bread into little strips and sprinkling it over the bread plate before him. It might not be a professional thing for a spy to do, but it was soothing his soul nonetheless.

“So anyway,” Clint said, moving his elbows aside so the waiter could set his soup in front of him, “I had no idea Textile Science was a  _ lab _ class.”

“Huh. Unexpected.” Phil said, feeling something was required of him, and drizzled fluorescent orange dressing over his salad. He  _ was _ relieved for Clint. He was. He was glad someone’s day had gone well, anyway.

Clint shrugged, his mouth already half full of onion soup-soaked bread. He slurped up an onion and continued.

“Yeah well, it’s actually probably better this way. ‘Least the circus taught me how to  _ sew _ , so even if I have a problem understanding the, uh, ‘interrelationships in the components of textiles and their use in— wait a minute.”

“What?” Phil asked, dropping his fork. Clint was squinting at something behind him, looking suspicious. Phil glanced in the dark glass of the window behind Clint, hoping to catch a reflection. Nothing— just a blurred view of the floral wallpaper and ornately-framed riverboat print. “ _ What _ ?” 

“Your forehead,” Clint told him, pointing now. “You got hurt.”

Yes, indeed, Phil thought, I got hurt. Full points, Hawkeye. You don’t miss anything, do you?

“It wasn’t bad,” he said instead.

“It’s not supposed to  _ be _ there, though.” Clint looked so suddenly distressed that Phil had to fight down the urge to either kiss him or snap at him for bringing it up  _ now _ . “I saw it when you came home, but I guess it didn’t register. I mean, it’s par for the course, right? I’d figured you just like using your head as a weapon. You’ve had that same cut in that same place on your forehead on maybe half our missions. ”

“I-- I have not,” Phil protested, shocked out of half his distemper. He lifted his fingers to the cut in question, which Phyl had neatly taped. He had to admit it felt more familiar than it should have. “Have I?’”

“Uh huh. And your knuckles, too. Is that why you haven’t rolled up your sleeves?”

Phil glanced around and, seeing neither waiters nor other patrons, rolled up his sleeve. Clint dropped his spoon, splashing broth, and stared.

“That’s a  _ bite mark _ ,” he said.

“It’s not my first,” Phil reassured him. 

Clint glanced up at him, eyes wide, then back down at the arm.

“What the hell have you been getting up to while I was gone, Mr Moore, my mild-mannered history studying husband?” he asked. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I’ve been babbling my head off while you’ve been sitting there all… all…  _ bitten _ . Who did that to you?”

“Some undergrad. Young, blonde, probably hungover— I didn’t catch her name. It all happened too fast; I was down on the ground before I knew what was going on.”

Clint stared at the bite mark a little longer.

“Rewind, please,” he said. “Start where it makes sense.”

“Right,” Phil agreed. “Sitrep. Sorry. I was attacked by an agitated undergraduate while I was out running this morning. It happened right after I passed that cut in the hills by the Forestry woods. And ‘agitated’ may be an understatement— to be honest, she seemed to be in an altered state of consciousness.”

After a minute in which he just stared, Clint nodded his head once, slowly.

“I said where it makes sense.”

“I would if I could,” Phil told him, “but it makes no sense to me, either. I’ve been overpowered by much smaller people before, but this girl wasn’t exactly Melinda May.”

“Few people are,” Clint agreed. He was still staring at the bite marks and scratches on Phil’s arm, dissatisfaction the only clear emotion on his face. “And Phillip Moore shouldn’t be in contact with any of them. You must’ve felt like shit all day, and I didn't even notice. God, I feel bad now.”

There was that change in Clint again, the sudden 180 from seemingly self-absorbed high to acting like he thought he’d let Phil, or maybe the universe in general, down. The insecurity was actually more annoying than the babble, when he considered it. In the field, Clint was all confidence and sass, and while Phil’d known it was an act, it was still a shock to see this. 

Was this the Clint underneath Agent Barton that Phil was seeing, or was it Clint Ford? 

“Don't worry about it,” Phil told him. “You want to hear the whole thing now, or wait until we get home.”

“Now,” Clint said, still looking a little forlorn, “please.”

Looking around one last time to make sure his voice was pitched low, Phil set aside his salad and started.

The story lasted all through soup and salad, the refilling of wine glasses, and the arrival of the entrees. Clint, now that his attention was caught, asked so many questions he might as well have been debriefing Phil after an op. Annoyance, as it so often did with Clint, swung back towards admiration. 

At last he seemed to run out of things to ask. Phil took a gulp of water and applied himself to his Beef Wellington. Whatever Clint was thinking was drowned in silence and clinking cutlery for a few moments.

“She was wearing a sundress,” he said finally. 

Phil looked up, to find Clint still frowning down at the remnants of his dinner. 

“She was,” he said. “Why?”

“I—” Clint shook his head, like he was trying to clear a gnat out of his ear. “I don’t know. It’s trying to trip something in my memory, but it’s not coming.”

“Lots of sundresses in July.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, then shrugged and sat up. “Eh, it’s gone. It’ll come back. So, your friend Phyl thinks it’s a nervous breakdown— “

“— I don’t know about you, but I don’t go around biting people during my nervous breakdowns,” Phil interjected. Clint smiled, and about half the tension dropped off his face.

“I'm glad. So, not breakdown, unless it’s some super-weird PTSD reaction or something. Security team said zombies… I just want to point out, here, that campus security is handling this a lot less well than the innocent little secretary.”

“You haven’t met Phyl, or you wouldn’t describe her that way,” Phil told him. “But yes. That said, I’m almost sympathetic to the zombie theory.”

Clint raised a skeptical eyebrow, a move that reminded Phil way too much of Melinda May. By the end of their shared operation, her eyebrows had been permanently so high you could have steered a small vessel beneath them. 

“You’re SHIELD, you’ve seen weirder,” Phil told him. “And I don’t mean she was a movie zombie. She wasn’t shambling and demanding brains. But I’ve seen agents who weren’t under their own power before. This… felt more like that. I think it was the way she pulled back in shock at the end, like she had no idea what she’d done until afterwards.”

“You think this has something to do with Magnos?” Clint asked, still sounding skeptical.

“Or else we’ve got an unrelated mystery on our hands,” Phil said. “What are the odds we’ve got two on this campus?”

“Could be acid. Or PCP,” Clint argued.

“I know what a bad trip looks like. This wasn’t it— not that way. Something weird is going on, more than just the sad state of adjunct employment.”

“Enh,” Clint grunted. “Or else we’re both just desperate to find something to justify staying here.”

“I know what I saw,” Phil snapped, feeling the prickles of annoyance begin to creep back. Clint questioning his own competence was annoying enough, but there was no damn reason to turn it on Phil. 

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Clint protested, then bit his lip. “Much, I mean. Shit, Phil, I’m not trying to make you mad. Fuck, first the panic attack last night, now this. I’m sorry, you’ve been so fucking patient with me, and here I am, getting my… my… shit all over you. Can I start again? I’m sorry I went off on you last night, and I’m sorry I dragged you out to dinner when you’d been bitten by a zombie student, and I’m sorry I’m going all weird on you now.”

Phil sat back, dropping his fork in his shock.

Clint thought… Clint thought  _ he _ was the one who should be apologizing for the night before? And that he’d done something  _ wrong _ by being relieved his classes had gone well? Well that was just… 

“That’s just absurd,” Phil told him, his voice rising enough that it echoed in the empty room. He glanced around and blushed, dropping his voice as he continued. “Look, I wasn’t paying attention on my run this morning because I was trying to figure out how to make it up to  _ you _ .”

“Make what up to me?” Clint asked.

“Last night-- no, don't wave me off. I told you; this is still a mission and I haven’t been treating it that way. Or, okay, fine, I’ve been treating it that way but I’ve been treating my dissertation as my mission objective.”

“It is,” Clint frowned at him, looking genuinely confused.

“It is  _ not _ ,” Phil said, “it’s part of the cover.” His heart gave a pang as he said it, sending up distressed images of them returning home without even another chapter to show for their time. He wrestled it down. “Would it be nice to finish it? Yes-- but my primary objective is the same as yours. And I need to pay attention to that. Can you help me?”

For a long moment Clint didn’t say anything, too busy sitting and blinking at him, his knife on the verge of slipping through his fingers. A slow blush was creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks, which was both fascinating and a little horrifying to Phil. He had  _ no _ idea what he’d done to cause it.

“What do you need from me?” Clint asked finally, gulping.

Phil bit his lip. It was a fair question— and he had no immediate answer for it. What had gotten him so annoyed just now? 

Ah.

“I’ve got a pretty smart gut, and it’s telling me this is connected. I need you to listen to it. You don’t have to agree, but don’t… don’t just blow me off. Let me help.”

“I’m really not trying to blow off your gut,” Clint replied, looking serious. “I think… I think I was just mad because I’ve been spinning my wheels on a whole lot of nothing. Nothing leaping out of the artifacts, nothing on my listening devices— I don’t even know if they’re working— nothing on the rumor mill, nothing beyond a stupid itchy wrong feeling. I’ve been busting my ass looking, while you’ve been down there in the dissertation zone. And then  _ you _ go and randomly run into something  _ solid _ .”

“Are… are you  _ jealous _ I got attacked by an undergrad?” Phil asked, feeling his voice rise. 

“No! Yes. A little. More like… you’re right, we’re in this mission together. I should’ve been there, too.”

“Getting bitten along with me?” Phil asked him, and got a rusty chuckle for a reward.

“It’s in the vows right after ‘in sickness and in health,’” Clint said. “Didn’t you know?”

“Never had occasion to memorize those before,” Phil replied, then felt horrible. Clint, he remembered dimly, once  _ had _ had the occasion. He scrambled to recover. “But maybe we had custom vows? I think my eyes were glazing over by that point in the briefing packet. Whoever wrote those— was it Sampson? Timmins?— had a very detailed imagination.”

Clint’s chuckle grew in warmth, and his eyes started to crinkle at the corners. Phil’s insides gave a discontented lurch— which had to be because of the beef, rather than a reaction to the fondness in Clint’s face. To think otherwise would be giving in to madness. 

“I can’t speak for you Mr. Moore, but mutual zombie defense was  _ definitely  _ in Clint Ford’s vows. So let’s hope I’m right and it really was just bad E, ‘cause Clint Ford is kind of a wuss. He doesn’t want anything to do with zombies.”

“I can’t say as I blame him,” Phil said, and then paused. The waiter was wheeling out a dessert cart the size of the QE II, and just as heavy-laden. “Oh my god.”

“Can I interest you in dessert?” the waiter asked.

Clint gave the cart a slow, smoldering, once-over.

“Oh buddy, you sure know how to sweet talk a guy,” he said, eyeing the cart lasciviously. Phil bit back first the infuriating— but not unexpected— surge of lust that set off, then the far less-expected twinge of jealousy. 

It had to be exhaustion. He was still discombobulated by the conversation, by Clint’s apology, by the realization that Clint felt protective of him, even if he was trying to joke it off. Yeah. That was it. Because even his unfortunate crush on Clint wouldn’t explain jealousy of a dessert cart. 

####

Clint’s Tuesday started pretty well, all things considered. It had taken him a long while to go to sleep the night before, his brain still full of classes and disappearing professors and zombie undergrads. Along about two AM, his brain had finally run out of steam in the middle of another round of “what if Phil’d gotten killed by a co-ed during his morning run” and stuttered into unconsciousness. 

So it wasn’t like Clint’s Tuesday morning had been going  _ great _ , but it could’ve been worse. He’d gotten out the door in time to get some reps in at the gym before class, Cassie’d met him at the coffee cart with a cup already waiting for him, and they’d both gotten into the anthropology department early enough that no one else was around.

They’d perched on stools around one of the big steel tables, sipping coffee. Clint watched the door to the storage room whenever Cassie turned her gaze to her cup or her books. He was a little bit worried about his bugs. They hadn’t transmitted at all since he’d set them, and they were supposed to be motion-activated.

So either no one had gone into the storage room since Sunday— unlikely— or else the storage room messed with radio transmissions as well as cell phones. No way to be sure except retrieve one and try to access the onboard memory.

“Hey,” Cassie’d said suddenly, breaking into Clint’s brooding, “d’you mind if I go see if Tess is in? Promise I’ll be back before Burgoyne gets here to eat you.”

“I’m pretty tough,” Clint reassured her, trying not to seem eager, “not to mention stringy. I’ll be okay. Take your time.”

Cassie had barely disappeared into the small office that Tess, Milo, and Bent shared, before Clint had picked the lock of the storage room and slipped inside. Since he couldn’t risk turning on the lights, the room was pitch black. His keychain flashlight did little except create a six-inch bright spot wherever he pointed it, but after so many days of unloading and shelving artifacts, he could have navigated through the rows in far worse conditions. He headed for the first of the bugs he’d planted over the weekend, the one he’d slipped onto the underside of a shelf in the middle of the first row. 

Dust motes fell through the weak blue beam as he moved, slipping around the remaining crates, leaping over the four-wheeler parked in the middle of the floor, and skirting the hip-high bas reliefs still leaning up against the sides of the shelves. Gods and monsters and priests grimaced back at him from the slabs, surrounded by images of corn and jaguars and more of the abstract shapes he’d seen on the pottery. They’d been moved since he was in here last, and more artifacts had been set on the shelves. One sat right in front of the bug he’d set, which might explain why it hadn’t transmitted; there’d been no motion for it to detect.

Clint stepped around a half-filled tupperware and then a bas relief with the face of a horned goat, which was staring straight up at him. He grabbed the obscuring artifact— it was stone— and pulled it forward.

He came face to face with a pair of rolling eyes, and leapt back.

The thing teetered on the edge of the shelf.

“Fuck,” Clint said to himself— and caught it just as it tipped over the edge. 

It was even worse up close; a grimacing face surrounded by some kind of weird ceremonial helmet. There were carvings on the sides of the helmet. They were, Clint realized as he stared at it, snakes. Or tentacles. And some of them were coming out of its nose.

“That is so fucked up,” Clint muttered to himself, then set the head aside and reached for the bug.

“Hello? Who’s there?” 

The voice split the air at the same time as the room abruptly flooded with light and blinded him.

Clint stuffed the bug underneath the head, working by feel, and whirled around.

When his vision cleared, he saw Doctor Santander standing in the doorway, looking much less like Santa and much more like an elder god— an elder god in suspenders and a seersucker shirt, but an elder god all the same.

It was possible the carvings had been getting to Clint a little more than he wanted to admit.

“What are you doing in here, Mr. Ford?” Santander asked.

Clint gulped.

“I— ah—” he tried.

“Hrmph,” Santander said after a moment, and began to step towards him, with careful little tip toes as he picked his way across the relief-strewn floor. “Don’t bother. I know why you’re here.”

—

“I see I know most of you here from the Guatemala dig; good. You’ll have a head start,” Dr. Burgoyne said, setting her notes down on the table and looking around the lab. “I— Mr. Ford.”

Clint, who had been shoved into the room by Dr. Santander’s big hand, grimaced at her and waved, before slinking over to sit next to Cassie. He tried not to look at Burgoyne as he went, so he only heard Dr. Santander’s reply to what he assumed was a non-verbal demand for explanation.

“You should be more clear on the syllabus, Miranda. I found him in the storage room, assuming lab started in there.”

“Did he?” Burgoyne asked. Clint winced, half-way onto his stool. Cassie shot him a look, and jerked her head. When Clint looked up, he found Burgoyne staring at him, clearly waiting for his attention. “As for you, Mr. Ford, perhaps next time you will pay better attention to your course assignments; you’re already operating at a disadvantage in this class. Carelessness will only make it worse.”

“Wow,” Cassie breathed.

“Tell me she does that to everyone,” Clint muttered at her, when Burgoyne turned her back to write on the whiteboard.

Cassie bit her lip and waggled her hand in a so-so gesture. Clint’s stomach dropped.

“Aw really?” he asked. Up until now, he’d just assumed Burgoyne disliked everyone except Tess.

Burgoyne glanced over her shoulder and shot an icy look in their general direction.

“She’s a stickler is all,” Cassie hissed back. “She’ll warm up once she knows you can do the work. Anyway, I bet the TAs’ll teach most of the class for her.”

As if summoned by Cassie’s prediction, Milo came in the door at that moment, looking especially mole-like in an ill-fitting brown vest. Dr. Burgoyne waited until he’d gotten himself settled, then turned back to the class.

“This is always an… intense… class, but you’ve all chosen to take it in less than half the usual time, so be prepared. Lecture will be two hours Tuesday and Thursday and you’ll have lab both afternoons. Mr. Carvalho, one of our doctoral students, will be in charge of those sessions.” She gestured at Milo.

“Oh my,” Cassie whispered. “That won’t make Bent happy.”

“Lab will focus on cataloging and beginning analysis of the artifacts that came with us from Guatemala,” Burgoyne continued, “again, for those of you who were there, much of this will be review. For that reason, the lectures will skim over field technique and cataloging, before we dive into the myriad methods of analysis at our disposal. You can expect guest lecturers on various techniques.”

(“Ah, see,” said Cassie, “TAs.”)

Burgoyne put down her marker, closing it with a snap, and turned fully towards the class. She folded her hands.

“Field work, while interesting, is worth nothing in a vacuum.” Her voice had descended into a soft sort of sing-song tone. Clint found himself leaning forward, almost against his will. “Yes, it’s the glamorous part of our work— if you think spending sixteen hours chipping away at test holes in ninety degree heat glamorous— but we are not truly archaeologists until we are back in the lab. A potsherd by itself is just pottery. It only tells its story, it only unlocks the past, when we bring it in here, place it in relation to all our other evidence, clean it, describe it, evaluate it. Is it stonework or porcelain? Are the designs simple or complex? Who made it and why and when?”

She tilted her head and paused, clearly inviting the class to ask the question with her. For his part, Clint thought he’d been right at his first impression— she was a lot like Director Fury, after all. He thought he was starting to see what Tess actually admired about the woman. 

Burgoyne opened her hands.

“Archaeology is mostly dirt, honestly. There are very few fantastic temples to be found, even fewer holy grails or powerful relics, not to mention dread curses or otherworldly portals. But we make the dirt breathe, we make it tell us stories. We do that here, in this building, in this room. You will all have your part in that… in bringing our past back to life.”

Here she paused again and scanned the room. Every student straightened up as she passed them, even surly Quentin. As she glanced over Clint, she sighed again.

“I only hope you’re all worthy of it,” she said.

####

About the fifth time Clint picked up his books and stomped upstairs that night, Phil finally figured out what was wrong.

That  _ something _ was wrong had been evident since he’d walked in the door, then promptly ducked the sparkly rubber ball that had been coming right at him. The ball had bounced past him into the daylilies and Clint had followed, nearly vaulting over Phil in his hurry. Watching him root around in the vegetation, Phil had a flashback to his ex-cat Rosie. He nearly checked to see if Clint had discovered a hidden catnip stash. 

The evening had continued the same way it had started. Clint had made dinner (chicken breasts, for a change) but could barely bring himself to eat it. He was too busy jumping up to get napkins or forks, refill water glasses, or show Phil the newest flyer from the co-op organizing committee. He seemed aggravated, but more at life in general than at Phil— at least, until Phil had asked about his classes. 

“Lab Techniques is a hell class. I think Doctor Burgoyne is punishing me for getting fingerprints on her potsherds or something,” he’d said. “Apparently I should have already known how to dig test trenches and use LIDAR and whatever else they did on their field experience. I’ve met dictators of small nations who were less demanding. As Milo would say: ‘ugh’.”

When Phil’d asked him what he could do to help, Clint had just glared.

“Nothing. I’m on it.” He’d snapped. “I got notes from Cassie on the field work training from Guatemala. You don’t need to worry, all right?”

Phil, who had been opening his mouth to say something, had shut it abruptly and finished his bland boxed pilaf instead.

After dinner, they’d both settled in for their usual homework and dissertation-related activities, but within five minutes Clint had leapt up and gone off to take out the trash. Then he’d unloaded the dishwasher. And wiped down the counters. And re-piled all their scattered books, mail, and other assorted detritus, neatly ordering them according to size and squaring the corners. 

Then, the peregrinations had begun: every fifteen minutes, like clockwork, Clint would gather up all his things, announce he was going to the bedroom to study, and stomp upstairs. Seven and a half minutes later, he’d stomp back down, settling onto his side of the futon with a frustrated huff. 

Phil had managed all of two hundred useful words on Chapter four during the last hour. It was driving him crazy. With the best will in the world, Phil couldn’t attribute all of Clint’s huffing and puffing as dissatisfaction with Phil himself. It was too bad— that, at least, would have been a silver lining. Unless… unless maybe Clint was unexpectedly allergic to Phil’s dander, or something?

As he was wondering, Phil heard a sustained clatter from upstairs, followed by a thump, a pregnant pause, and then a sustained “arg.” 

No, he decided, whatever was up Clint’s butt, it wasn’t Phil. 

The blush that followed that thought proved that Phil was still in deep— goddamnit, no, that he was still far too interested in Clint. Because Clint couldn’t have been more aggravating if he tried with both hands— goddamnit, again— and Phil absolutely should not want to kiss him hard at that moment to get him to stop.

Phil fought for some kind of innuendo-free comparison, finally coming up with: Clint was acting like a dog who hadn’t been taken on his walkies. 

“Oh,” Phil said out loud, and put down his laptop as enlightenment dawned.

Years after her disastrous op with Phil, Melinda had described her least-favorite part of undercover work to an impressionable young trainee:

“It’s nearly impossible for me to keep up my normal level of daily physical training when I’m undercover, unless I go undercover as a mixed martial artist. People ask questions if you’re an accountant who lifts weights for two hours a day plus does yoga plus an hour-long run. Especially if you’re a woman. It drove me batty.”

She’d sent a side-long glance at Phil, as if to say,  _ and so did you _ , but that wasn’t the point at the moment. 

Cautiously, Phil got up and looked at the clock. Ten PM. The student gym might be open, but it seemed late to send Clint all the way across campus. He glanced toward the door, and fought the urge to find a leash and jingle it. 

As he was debating his next move Clint came stomping back down, books in hand. He glared suspiciously at Phil through the stairway’s slats. 

“What?” he snapped as he came off the last step, rounding on Phil.

For a moment, Phil was horribly tempted to just leave it and let Clint stew. The more Clint hated him, the better. But no— this wasn’t actually Clint hating him, this was Clint hurting and not realizing it. That wasn’t the same thing.

“It’s a nice night,” Phil said instead. “Time for wa— for a walk?”

Clint’s glare deepened as he tried to figure out Phil’s angle. His fingers flicked out.

_ Watchers? _ They asked, in SHIELD-standard visual signals. 

Ah. He must think Phil thought they’d been bugged. Phil shook his head. Clint’s frown, if anything, deepened.

“I’ve got work to do,” he snapped.

“And you’re doing so much of it right now,” Phil snapped back. He bit his lip nearly immediately and waited for the explosion. (He knew how this went, although he wasn’t sure if Clint was up to Melinda’s level of icy outrage.)

Clint puffed up, growing taller and broader, his face reddening— and then released it all on a long, pathetic sigh.

“Fuck,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m just— arg, never mind. What  _ is _ this all about?”

“Tell you on the way,” Phil said, opening the door and grabbing his keys from the dish on the table. “Come on. It’s a nice night for a walk.”

“Huh,” Clint said, sounding skeptical but following Phil outside the door nevertheless, “you just want me to protect you from the ravening zombie undergrad hordes.” 

His voice sounded lighter already, and Phil felt himself smile at it.

“I can handle any undergrad hordes, zombie or otherwise, that raven my way,” he said, “but I would like company.”

They set off across as well-lit section of sidewalk then turned deeper into the cooperative, towards the central common area. They set a quick pace; rambling wasn’t going to help much under the circumstances.

“So seriously, what’s the deal?” Clint asked after a few moments. “You didn’t just decide it was a nice night for a stroll through a zombie-infested campus.”

“It’s not zombie-infested. Really, I just thought you seemed restless and figured stretching your legs might help. And—” Phil struggled for neutral phrasing— “you said you had been doing some catch-up work this afternoon. Have you been studying all day?”

Clint nodded.

“And yesterday you had classes for most of the day. That’s a lot of sitting for someone as used to being active as you are.”

“What, you think I’m just fidgety because I haven’t gotten enough exercise? I got my gym time in.”

“Yeah, but last week you did that  _ and _ you were hauling heavy boxes for several hours a day.”

Clint tilted his head, clearly contemplating Phil’s argument.

Then, with little warning, he veered right and hauled himself up into a nearby oak tree.

Phil stood there, frozen, as the rustling in the tree moved from the lowest branches nearly to the crown.

Everything was silent for about fifteen seconds (counted by the beat of his heart, felt in his throat) and then Clint called back down:

“Okay, so maybe I did need to get out and stretch a bit. Man, this feels good.”

“Maybe a bit,” Phil agreed, staring upwards into the mass of shadows and leaves. “You coming back down?”

“But I just got here,” Clint replied, with what sounded suspiciously like a shit-eating grin. “And the breeze is real nice. Maybe you should come up.”

This was what he got for trying to help, Phil supposed. He nearly turned on his heel and left. He didn’t need dares.

But the night was really lovely, with none of the humidity of the past couple days. And the stars were out. And the oak looked fairly sturdy; it hadn’t creaked much at all while Clint had climbed. And the shadows at the edge of the field were dark, perfect places for zombie undergrads to hide.

Phil reached up and heaved himself onto the first branch. He thought he heard Clint chuckle.

He didn’t climb up far, just enough to find a nice, broad branch to sit on and another to drape his arms over. Clint was only about five feet above him, dangling one leg lower as he leaned over his own branch to look down. They watched each other in the dark for a while. Clint’s face was shadowed, his eyes shining a little in the reflected glow of the street lamp below. Phil wondered if he could read Phil’s face any better than Phil could read his— and if so, what it was telling him.

“I’m sorry. I can be an asshole,” Clint said after a little while.

“Can you?” Phil asked, because he didn’t know quite what else to say, how to tell him  _ you aren’t an asshole, you just need to listen to your body _ without sounding like a kindergarten teacher. And that wasn’t fair— if Melinda May could struggle with unexpected changes in the routine, no one else ought to feel ashamed.

“That’s what my ex says,” Clint shrugged. It was meant to be a throwaway line, Phil thought, but he couldn’t help catching it.

“I thought you and Agent Morse were friends,” he said cautiously. 

“We are. She’s great. I dunno.” The sigh Clint gave shook leaves the next branch over. “Maybe that’s what everyone’s ex thinks. Right? Or else they wouldn’t be an ex?”

“I… wouldn’t really know.”

“Really?” Clint’s voice was still light, curious. 

“No exes to speak of,” Phil explained. At least, he was pretty sure Melinda didn’t count. 

“Oh come on,” Clint said, suddenly dropping several branches and ending up nearly parallel with Phil. He leaned forward. “You? You telling me you’ve never been in a relationship? I find that hard to believe, given the rumors.”

“What rumors?” Phil asked.

“The ones where you’ve got a, um, little black book with sections for all the alphabet agencies.”

“I do,” Phil shrugged, wondering why the hell he was blushing about that fact  _ now.  _ It had never bothered him before. “Although I wouldn’t put it quite that way. Everyone’s a consenting adult and it’s a way to pass the time. Better than a lot of other ways to pass the time, anyway. But, no, unless you count relationships as being bound by the duration of a joint op, I haven’t had any in a long while. It hasn’t been a priority, I suppose.”

“Huh,” Clint said and hung there, chin on his hands, feet kicking. “Seems like a waste.”

“I don’t think so,” Phil told him, feeling defensive but unable to decide why. “I spend so much time on operations, or at SHIELD, and all my work talk is classified— I wouldn’t want to inflict all that on someone. SHIELD is a harsh mistress.”

“Yeah it is,” Clint agreed. “I know that one for sure. Bobbi and me both. Ugh; maybe you’ve got the right idea. Stupid to try and have a relationship and be a secret agent at the same time.”

“And yet, you’ve got at least three exes I know of,” Phil told him. “So I’m guessing there’s something you find worth the trouble.”

That silenced Clint for a while.

“You know,” he said, after Phil’d finally decided he wasn’t going to answer, “I’m not sure I’ve thought about it. I mostly just followed their lead. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea-- I’m not great at being, well, domestic. You know, living with humans and stuff. But they wanted it and… I wanted to give them what they wanted.  That’s love for you.”

“You fall in love often?” Phil asked, surprised at the plaintiveness in his own voice. Oh, this walk had been a terrible idea. 

“Bobbi thinks I do,” Clint said. “I dunno. Define ‘often.’ Is there some normal amount people fall in love? Anyway, I guess I do often enough I should probably know better. But it seems to happen before I know I’ve done it, you know? Or, well, I guess you don’t.”

“Well, if it happened before I knew it, I suppose I wouldn’t know, no,” Phil said, trying to lighten the tone. “But I’m not sure whether you should know better or worse, it just… sounds like the way you’re made. Ugh. I was trying to get you out of the house to help calm you down, not bring you down. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Clint said, and dropped to the ground. “I started it. C’mon. There’s a playground around here somewhere, with monkey bars. And no one to see us be idiots.”

He started off without looking back to see if Phil would follow. Phil dropped and trotted after him. Clint was right— no good could come of digging any further. It was a far better idea to just go act like a fool for a little while, turn his brain off, and tell whatever organ of his it was that had been leading this conversation to shut the fuck up before it got them into trouble.

####

For the rest of the week, classes went more or less according to their established pattern. Dr. Jones made Fallacies and Falsehoods feel like a trapeze act, where Clint leapt headlong into nothingness, exhilarated each time he reached out to find the swing hit his hand. Terror and triumph together, basically. It was all interesting, and though he barely had the background to understand it and the acoustics continued to be awful, he was managing to hit his marks. 

Lab lectures, on the other hand, were just terror, even with Tess and Milo guest bickering-- er, lecturing. As for the lab work itself, it was too soon to tell. Milo hadn’t let them actually touch anything yet, too busy orienting them to safe handling practices, the clunky, nearly-obsolete database, and the organization of the storage room. Clint spent most of the time with Cassie whispering in his good ear.

Then there was Textile Science, where after a slow first class, Clint had spent the last two scribbling furiously, page after page. When he wasn’t doing that he was fondling fabric swatches— or else lighting them on fire. The professor turned out to have a chaotic streak and to believe strongly in hands-on demonstrations. 

When he wasn’t doing any of that, Clint was at the gym, or the archery range, or the running paths, trying to work off some of the excess energy that built up during the long classroom sessions. He’d been too busy to do any more sniffing around about Elena Magnos or any more trouble-shooting of his still-silent bugs, just as he’d feared. 

Phil reminded him it had only been a week, but with a schedule like his, Clint wondered how the hell he’d ever find time for that and sleep, too. Not that he had much time for sleep; he woke up feeling slightly more exhausted every day, even though he wasn’t doing half the physical labor he was capable of. 

Things with his partner were equally exhausting, though outwardly Clint played it cool. They still met for dinner— Phil’d set up a rota— did chores, then settled near each other on the futon to work in the evenings. Phil’s pile of books and photocopies grew ever bigger, spilling off the coffee table onto the floor, and Clint’s own textbooks had been turned into a makeshift end table on the other side of the futon. 

They usually worked in companionable silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts— at least, Clint hoped that’s what Phil thought. He hoped Phil hadn’t noticed the way Clint’s attention would invariably drift over the course of an hour or so, until he was paying more attention to Phil’s screen than his own. Or the way he’d catch himself in the middle of staring, mesmerized, as Phil’s fingers flew on the keys or scratched the back of his neck. Or memorizing the way Phil chuckled to himself, or groaned, or tugged at his hair absently as he wrote. 

Clint couldn’t remember ever having this difficulty before with Phil— not as Coulson and not even their first week here. It was different than the one-sided sexual tension he’d learned to live with, and the initial weirdness of meeting the Phil behind the agent. 

Phil continued to surprise him, and not just with dry cupcakes-- although both the awkwardness of that gesture and the even way Phil’d handled his panic attack had been surprising. Equally surprising had been Phil’s remarkable inability to keep his shoes out of high traffic areas one might reasonably expect to be footwear-free. He’d always thought Coulson noticed the little things; apparently that didn’t extend to running shoes. Then again, Phil also didn’t seem to notice that Clint tended to leave a trail of clothing from the front door to the upstairs bedroom, or if he did, he didn’t say anything, so Clint figured he could live with some errant aerosoles.

Clint hadn’t been surprised that Phil had noticed his fidgeting earlier in the week, but he hadn’t expected Phil to turn up with a set of adjustable hand weights the next day, or that he’d install a pull-up bar in their bedroom doorway so Clint could get more exercise in at home. Then again, all that was stuff a good field partner might notice, and Coulson was one of the best.

But that didn’t explain the conversation in the tree.

Clint couldn’t get it out of his head. He was a little— strike that, a lot— embarrassed about having spilled all his insecurities over his divorce at Phil. That was shit he hadn’t told anyone, really— well, he couldn’t tell Bobbi, and he hadn’t wanted to complain to anyone who worked with both of them (oops), and while he could have seen himself telling Nat, he hadn’t had much of a chance. Why had it felt so important to talk about it, there in the leafy dark? And why the hell had Phil  _ listened _ ? Why, even worse, had he  _ reciprocated _ ? 

Not that Clint should have minded that Phil’d shared his non-love life with Clint. Hell, he should have been happy, right? One of the bonuses of this mission was supposed to be learning more about Coulson, to convert camaraderie to friendship. If this didn’t mean it was working, Clint didn’t know what it meant.

So why was it that when Clint sat brooding on that conversation during labs, or tucked under the covers at night staring at his and Phil’s reflection in the mirror, he did so with a mix of longing and dread? Like something was lifting the hair on the back of his neck, sneaking up on him? And why did the confirmation that Coulson really did have a little black book the size of some novels — and was remarkably ego-free about it— just make Clint feel sorry for him? 

Phil’s pattern sounded healthy. Adult. Refreshing. Especially compared to Clint’s habit of falling all in a tangle for people he barely knew, then following them around, dazzled, until they decided they were done with him. 

Eventually, while using the mirror to peep on Phil as he did early-morning stretches beside the bed, Clint decided that it was the mission’s fault. It was messing with them both. The closeness and domesticity were bound to fuck with anyone’s head. So would being let in on Phil’s secret, goofy, pre-coffee side, with his dopey half-smiles and unconscious frowns and out of tune humming. Clint would have bet a lot that there were very few people in the world who’d gotten to see that Phil.

The world was missing out in a big way.

That, Clint had decided as he watched Phil roll up his sleeves to wash the dishes at night, was probably why Clint couldn’t stop watching him. He needed to be a witness on behalf of the universe. If only the universe had someone else to split shifts with him— all this Phil-watching was exhausting, on top of everything else going on. Clint saw Friday, and the end of classes for two days, come with great relief.

He needed something to break him out of his increasingly obsessive Phil surveillance, and took Cassie up on her invitation to the next co-op neighbor potluck hoping it would help.

Cassie met him at the door to their house just after six that evening, a large pyrex of seven layer dip under one arm and a jumbo bag of chips under the other.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” Phil said from behind Clint, as he reached around to hand Clint a six pack. “Just let us lock up.”

Phil’d come back from the library exhausted that evening and brought up the possibility of skipping the dinner. Clint hadn't bothered to say anything, he’d just given Phil his phone so Phil could read the ten texts in which Cassie had asked Clint to reassure her they were coming. She was clearly determined to integrate them into the co-op. After reading, Phil gave in.

“I just… I hate mingling. And small talk. And small talk with mingling,” Phil sighed.

“Uh,” Clint said eloquently, as the half-dozen times Agent Coulson had charmed their way out of awkward social situations involving large weaponry flitted through his head. “Me too. I mean, I like parties, and I like people. I just… I kinda hate getting to know people. But. She’s gonna kidnap us if we don’t go.”

“Valid point,” Phil had sighed.

So here they were with a six pack of beer, a hunk of cheese, a box of crackers, and two determined expressions between them. 

“Ready, Mr. Moore?” Clint whispered to Phil as he finished locking up. Phil turned around and flashed him a  self-depreciating smile.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Indy. Let’s go have an adventure.”

Behind them, Cassie sighed longingly.

“Not sure how much adventure you can have at a potluck,” Clint said as they walked together down the path.

“You’ve been to the wrong potlucks then,” Phil replied. “The bean dip alone is usually risky enough to count.”

He was smiling as he said it, that goofy grin back on his face. Clint sighed, moved the cheese to his other hand, and slid his fingers through Phil’s, squeezing hard. 

It was an imperative, all right? A reflex. 

Cassie’s laughter echoed in the evening air, and Clint fought down the sudden conviction that she was laughing at him.

####

Phil’s fears about the bean dip notwithstanding, the party was a lot more lively than Clint would have expected. The central kitchen-slash-social hall was far less sterile than the rest of the compound had led him to expect. It had low wood beams crossing the ceilings and the tables, while older, were wood rather than plastic or formica. The kitchen itself had been re-done in industrial steel, but it worked with the look. Only the cracked linoleum flooring gave away the building’s age. Food covered every prep surface plus the long central table, and people hovered around it, double-dipping in the lime chiffon and hoarding the supermarket shrimp cocktail.

There was a fire pit outside, and children ran shrieking around the bonfire in it. They poked at the pallets as they burned, attempted to roast marshmallows, and tossed in entire piles of paper plates one by one, just to watch them curl up and burn. 

More adults were milling around the fire and the picnic tables, eating still more food and drinking from a startling variety of kegs, jugs, bottles, cans, and thermoses, all of which Clint was fairly certain contained alcohol. 

“Eek,” Clint said, and heard Phil hum in agreement next to him. 

“What?” Cassie asked, looking over at Clint curiously.

“This is a lot bigger than you told us it would be,” Clint told her. “Do all these people live here?”

Cassie looked around, pursing her lips.

“We-ell,” she said, “a couple people might have brought friends.”

“A couple?”

“A few.” She shrugged. “Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

She took the beer out of Phil’s arms, put it down next to a cooler, then grabbed Clint’s hand and started to drag him off. Clint flung out his other hand behind him, reflexively, for Phil to catch.

Instead, Phil stepped up next to him and slipped a hand into Clint’s back pocket. Clint dropped his arm around Phil’s shoulders, mostly out of shock, then looked over.

“What?” he asked Phil, who winked at him.

“I can’t show affection to my husband in public now?” he asked, and squeezed Clint’s behind through his jeans.

Clint squeaked. Cassie turned to look at them both, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Clint told her, “nothing at all.” 

Phil chuckled. 

What, Clint thought, the hell? Phil seldom initiated public displays of affection between them, mostly content to follow Clint’s lead. And the past week, if anything, he’d seemed even more subdued. Was this delayed payback for Clint’s disastrous booty-grab at the gyro shop, or had Phil just decided, for some reason, that Phillip Moore was the type to mark his territory?

Phil’s hand was still in his pocket, not squeezing or rubbing, just there. He seemed unconcerned with it, nodding politely and making small talk with everyone Cassie introduced them to. As they walked, at times the motion of Clint’s gait would change and Phil’s hand would nearly slip out— or else he’d stretch away to grab a beer or wave at someone. But he never fully disengaged, no matter how often Clint held his breath each time, waiting to see.

It was weird. Not bad-weird, kind of nice weird.

Actually, for Clint Ford it was  _ very  _ nice weird.

For Clint Barton, it was frustratingly arousing, to the extent that Clint found himself biting his lip absent-mindedly rather than contributing much to the conversation going on around him. The longer they went, the more he focused in on those fingers— and anyway it was so damn hard to hear in this kind of crowd.

“Well I think that’s everyone,” Cassie said.

Clint whipped his head around. 

“It was?” he asked, shocked. 

“Yep. I spared you the people who don’t live here.”

“Thank you so much,” Phil told her, “I doubt I’ll remember any of the names, but it’s good to get started.  Clint, shall we grab food?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, finally daring to look over at him. Phil looked as mild as a rabbit, but there was a faint non-smile, a very Coulson one, behind his eyes. Whatever the hell he’d been doing, then, it was deliberate. “Yeah, let’s grab food.”

As they made their way back inside the building, Clint hissed

“What’s got you so handsy tonight, Mr. Moore?”

Phil looked at him and blinked, like he had no idea what Clint was talking about. Clint glared at him. That got him a shrug and shoulder-waggle, and then Phil finally opened his mouth.

“Oh, Dr. Jones!” Cassie squealed, and pulled on Clint’s sleeve. “Hey Clint, look!”

Dr. Jones was, indeed, standing in front of them, leaning against the food table. She had a beer in one hand and two deviled eggs balanced in the other. As Clint turned she lifted the eggs to her mouth and took a bite of one.

“Cassandra,” she greeted them around her mouthful, “Clint. What brings you here?”

“We live here,” Clint told her.

“Uh, not together,” Cassie added. Dr. Jones looked from Cassie to Clint, then over to Phil, whose hand hadn’t left Clint’s pocket.

“Evidently,” she said, and nodded at Phil. 

Clint performed introductions— a little stiltedly when he realized he still didn’t know what Dr. Jones’s first name was. 

“Aren’t you the one who fought off a horde of zombies over in the Forestry woods?” she asked Phil.

“Oh god,” Phil groaned, slapping his free hand up to cover his eyes. “The history students have been talking.”

“Word gets around,” Jones said. She was laughing, but-- after a momentary spike of protective rage-- Clint realized she wasn’t laughing  _ at _ Phil. It was some private joke. “I’ve heard at least three variants from the anthropology students-- though none from your husband here.”

“Clint’s good that way,” Phil agreed and gave him a squeeze of what was probably meant to be thanks. 

Clint tried not to eep, but he admitted he lost the thread of the conversation for just a second. When he got it back, Jones was asking Phil about his dissertation, and what he was looking for in the Dugan archives.

Phil’s eyes lit up, although the rest of him stayed cool. As strange as this mission had been so far, Clint had to admit that watching Phil Coulson, Senior Agent of SHIELD, geek out at the slightest encouragement was a privilege he would not have wanted to miss. Phil might be playing a part, a really disconcerting one sometimes, but this was clearly 100% genuine.

The way Dr. Jones responded, calmly but with real interest, raised her several notches in Clint’s estimation. Still— 

“What’s she doing here? She doesn’t live here, does she?” Clint muttered at Cassie, leaning down so she could answer in his good ear. 

“No she doesn’t,” Cassie said. “I have no idea why she’s here. I don’t think she knows anyone.”

It wasn’t an answer Clint liked, given that Jones was high on the list of people who’d had an opportunity to off Dr. Magnos. However, it was handy— he hadn’t had a chance to get her measure outside of class, and now here she was, large as life and clearly in a communicative mood. Even if she  _ was _ here to pump Clint for information, he could pump her right back.

Clint waited until Phil had wound down a little, stepping away to fill his own plate as he listened, and tried to figure out how to turn the conversation the way he wanted it to go.

As he stepped back up to Phil’s side, he heard Phil say:

“Yeah, Clint said you were still in Guatemala when he started at the lab. That had to be difficult— was there a lot to wrap up at the dig site?”

_ Bless you, Phil,  _ Clint thought, then turned his attention to Dr. Jones.

“Yes and no,” Jones replied, setting down her empty beer bottle and leaning her hip a little harder against the edge of the table, nearly into the hotdish. “The dig was mostly wrapped but the missing persons case was a mess.”

“Dr. Magnos?” Clint asked, leaning closer and letting Phil steal pretzels off his plate, “I talked with her some this spring. She seemed cool; it was real weird finding out she just up and vanished. No one’ll talk about it much.”

“I probably shouldn’t either,” Jones said. “It turned into a minor international incident, after all— thank you, Cassandra, that’s very thoughtful.”

Cassie, who’d just handed her another beer, gave her a thumbs-up then reached past Clint to grab an egg roll. Jones took a long swig, then contemplated the bottle for a moment.

“I don’t know why Miranda had me stay behind, either she or Merlin would have been better choices. But she said she still had administrative work to untangle, and had to talk to the authorities at the University about it. And Merlin, well, Merlin only really cares for the artifacts, when you come down to it. Still, I’m about as diplomatic as your average moose. I tend to make a big mess and run over things.”

Phil murmured something polite like he was sure she wasn’t, but Clint caught Cassie bobbling her head in a kind of shell-shocked “that’s fair”— and wondered just exactly what she’d seen Jones run over before.

“I’m really not good at it,” Jones told him. “I yelled at that damn embassy man— or, well I don’t know exactly what he was. He came  _ through _ the embassy anyway, so I assumed state department, but honestly he was just a slick guy in a suit. He seemed genuine enough, though-- and whoever he was he cut a lot of red tape for me. Which was great, I’d just about reached the end of my ability to bribe  _ or _ threaten. But really, nothing he did got her found, so it was useless in the end. And I— well, I don’t care what anyone says, I  _ don’t _ think she ran off with someone. If she’d wanted to run off, she could have left a note. And nothing was missing from our inventory, so what could she have stolen? Anyway, I’d have expected her to take a jeep, not walk out.”

“The site was about twenty kilometers from town,” Cassie explained. “Not exactly an easy walk. But everyone thought maybe she had someone waiting for her.”

“Bullshit she did,” Jones growled, “No tire tracks but ours for miles— at least until the police got there. Anyway, who would she run off with?”

“Milo said he saw her with a kind of Eurotrash guy when they were on a break in town, a week before she… before it happened,” Clint said. 

Jones shook her head, looking thoughtful.

“Don’t think so— unless he has a weird definition of Eurotrash. I did see her talking to the state department man, along with Miranda and Merlin. He visited camp one day while almost everyone was out at test sites. But I don’t think it was him, or why would he stick around? Anyway, I can’t imagine Elena not telling me if she had— if there was someone, whether lover or bounty hunter or recruiter for Iowa State. No, I’m pretty sure Elena fell off a cliff somewhere.”  She looked down at her beer, shook her head, then swallowed it in one gulp. “I really hope she went quick. Hold on, I need another beer.”

“I’ve got you,” Phil said, handing her another. Clint realized he hadn’t noticed when Phil had slipped away; he’d been too busy listening.

“Speaking of disappearances,” Jones said after she’d started in on her next beer, “are either of you friends with Ellen Gideon? I haven’t seen her in class since the first day. If she’s going to drop, she’d better get me a slip. I don’t want her to have to pay for it.”

“She was in Lab Techniques with us,” Cassie said, turning to Clint, “right?”

Clint cast back, trying to remember. 

“I didn’t see her. Isn’t she graduating? She’d have to have done that already.”

“No, I’m sure I saw her lurking in a corner of the storage room when Milo was going on and on about the labeling system,” Cassie said.

“She didn’t look well, the first day of classes,” Clint replied. “Maybe she got sick?”

“Maybe I’m paranoid these days,” Jones sighed. “All Elena’s fault. I’ll have someone check with her RA. Meanwhile, Clint, I’ll admit I’m glad to see you here. You intrigue me.”

“Uh?” Clint asked, hoping it didn’t come off quite as deer in the headlights as he felt. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“Oh,” Jones laughed, waving away his worries with the hand that held her bottle, “I just mean we don’t get that many transfer students in our department. Tell me what made you choose archaeology.”

Ah. Right. That Clint could do practically without thinking, these days. He trotted out his Iraq-Isis Gate- roadside bomb song and dance for her, while Cassie slipped away to talk to friends and Phil wandered off in search of some mini-spanakopitas. As he talked, Clint thought about Jones’s description of Dr. Magnos in Guatemala— and the way she’d lingered on the name “Elena,” like Magnos meant more to her than either Dr. Burgoyne or Dr. Santander. Jones’s story hadn’t helped him decide whether there were SHIELD-variety shenanigans at work here, or just academic ones, but it did underline one thing:

Whatever had happened to Dr. Magnos, Clint was fairly certain it wasn’t voluntary. 

####

It was, Phil decided, getting to be a bad habit.

Clint would do something over-the-top domestic like kiss him passionately in public— or else Phil would overreact to something normally domestic Clint had done, Phil didn’t really have anything to compare it to— and Phil would hide.

Inevitably, he would then end up staring at his “own” door, later than he’d planned to be and having failed to keep in touch, and wondering just what was waiting for him inside. Eventually, Clint had to snap. He never had before— except when Phil had been the one waiting for him, of course— but it was bound to happen. 

At least this time he’d managed to vary the theme? At least this time it was  _ Phil  _ who had done something over-the-top domestic. But then, he’d panicked anyway, of course, and left early on a Saturday morning and just… stayed gone the whole day.

He really hadn’t meant to do that.

Had he?

Phil heaved a huge sigh and set one of his bags down, carefully outside of daylily range. The girl standing next to him paused, then heaved a sigh of her own in what he assumed was solidarity.

It had been all his fault this time. He’d been getting more and more antsy since the tree-top conversation. The more he’d played it over in his mind, the more disturbing aspects it took on. First of all, what the hell were the bad traits Clint thought he had? What had made a strong woman like Agent Morse dump him? So he left towels on the floor, had minor panic attacks (which he then fell over himself apologizing for) and got somewhat passive-aggressive about shared meals? If Clint had so many bad traits, why the hell hadn’t Phil noticed? He’d been  _ looking _ , damnit. 

Secondly, what the hell had Phil been doing even starting that line of conversation? When had he lost that much control over himself? He did not want to know, he had no interest in, Clint Barton’s love life. Hell, the only interest he had in his  _ own _ love life was not having one. People just got hurt.

Clint was moving in their living room, backlit against the curtains, which were just as revealing as Cassie could have hoped for in her wildest dreams. He was working reps with the hand weights, true, but he also appeared to be… shimmying? Dancing? Phil wasn’t sure. Either he was remarkably unconcerned about Phil’s continued absence, or he was doing this out of spite. 

The girl next to him shuffled, trampling more daylilies, then shivered. A storm had started to creep in from the west over the past few hours, and had nearly reached them now. A cold wind was starting to crawl up Phil’s spine. Of course, he had a key. He could go in any time.

He could go in any time and face the fact that he’d spent much of the previous evening with his hand on Clint’s ass, trying to see what it would take to get Clint to break character— or get himself to break down. Pushing the proprietary angle until the only thing he hadn’t done was push Clint into an inadequate bush to stick a tongue down his throat. Clint had seemed entirely unaffected in public, but Phil had expected some reaction afterwards.

(”Goddamnit Phil, just pee on my leg next time, it’ll be more efficient,” Melinda had growled.)

There’d been nothing.

He’d also expected it to start feeling weird for him, for his hand to start itching, desperate to be free, the way he felt after more than a little while in public with any actual lover. The feeling had-- well it had come, but when he’d removed himself from Clint’s presence, he’d started feeling like everyone was watching him. The wind on his back had suddenly turned cold. 

Just on-mission nerves, he’d decided. Don’t go into a potentially-hostile crowd without backup. And he’d left his behind. Well, he’d left Clint’s behind beh— he’d gone back to Clint. It was easier than trying to sort out his thoughts.

Those thoughts were what had driven him out of the house so early on a weekend, literally around the block on a run, and then out, rather aimlessly, into town. “Bummin’ around,” his grandmother had called it, when they’d bounce from shop to cafe to shop on summer days together. “Reconnoitering,” he called it when he did it in foreign cities while on extended ops. “Sticking me with the chores,” Melinda had called it when he’d done it on their op together.

What Clint would call it, Phil wasn’t sure. He’d have to go inside in order to find out. An early raindrop splattered on the top of his head, just in front of his receding hairline. The girl looked up at the sky, as if surprised to find them so imminently threatened, but stood her ground. 

Clint had dropped the weights and was… well, he was definitely dancing, and he was also definitely bendier than Cactus Guy, and had he flat-out forgotten just how little those curtains hid? 

“Nrgl,” the girl in the daylilies said, and Phil had to agree.

There had been five texts from Clint on his phone when he’d gotten out of Menard’s, each one an escalating version of “are you okay.” The last one had said “hope you’re not dead ;).” Phil’d thought the smiley face was a work of passive-aggressive art.

Now, faced with Clint’s rear end gyrating behind avocado green curtains, he decided Clint couldn’t have been  _ that _ worried. 

Why was that thought pissing him off?

The wind had freshened and the raindrops were becoming more than occasional.

“I should go inside,” he said.

“You really should,” the girl agreed. 

Clint had started doing a kind of funky booty-drop thing, his arms crossed around his shoulders, that was intensely 1990s. Phil had a bad feeling he’d rummaged around in the vinyl and discovered  _ Lovesexy _ .

“Maybe I’ll stay here a little longer,” Phil decided.

The girl shrugged, not taking her eyes off the window in front of them. Lightning blued the sky. 

“I mean, there’s no rush,” Phil added.

A gust of wind rattled the mailbox down on the street, then the trees, then the daylilies. 

“Right,” the girl agreed.

Thunder rumbled, growing in intensity as it rolled.

“Could be hours until the storm really breaks,” Phil said.

“Uh huh,” the girl said, and pulled up her hood.

Phil nodded, then turned around and settled in.

Which was when the wall of rain hit, drenching him instantly. 

He ran for the door.

####

When he came inside, Phil realized it was exactly as bad as he’d thought.

Clint had, indeed, found  _ Lovesexy _ .

As the door closed, he turned, still shaking his ass, his lips mouthing “wanna melt,” his hand coming up, until he was pointing at Phil as he finished “with U.”

His eyes widened as he spotted Phil. 

“Oh, thank god,” he said, and sat down on the floor.

“Clint?” Phil dropped his sodden bags and hurried over. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright? How about you, huh? Your note said you’d be back ‘soon.’ You got some weird definition of ‘soon’ that I don’t? Damnit, answer your texts or something.”

Phil’s eyes flickered to the record player, where Prince was declaring that he was melting, melting, melting, then back to Clint, who just looked melted.

“I didn’t—” he started, then sighed. “I didn’t think you’d worry that much.”

“You didn’t think I’d  _ worry _ ?” Clint yelped, flinging up his hands. At least, Phil thought numbly, he’d finally gotten Clint to crack. “I nearly called Jasper— or, or Bobbi, even— I thought maybe you’d gotten… I don’t know… kidnapped or attacked again or, or-- Jesus  _ fuck, _ Phil.”

“I have a panic button on the phone,” Phil reminded him, defensively. “And a tracker in my ring. And I wasn’t going to be on campus at all.”

“Yeah, that’s why I nearly called Jasper, to see if you’d activated it and no one told me. Fuck, Phil, you know that’s no good. It doesn’t work if you’re attacked from behind. Or hell, maybe you crashed the car and were lying in a ditch somewhere, or you budged in line in the wrong place and someone shot you; random crap does happen.”

He pulled himself up on the corner of the futon, which creaked ominously.

“You didn’t look that worried when I got in,” Phil snapped, feeling the earlier resentment come flooding back. It was probably trying to distract him from his growing sense of guilt, but he couldn’t stop it.

Clint flung an arm at the record player.

“Well I figured if you weren’t dead in a ditch I’d just bring more attention to us, here or at SHIELD, if I panicked. I had to hold out and see. I mean you’re a competent guy— obviously, I don’t need to tell you that— and you probably had a good reason, and you’re shit at responding to texts anyway, so I just had to trust you and wait. So I did the dishes, and then you weren’t home, so I did the laundry. And you  _ still _ weren’t home so I vacuumed—”

“We don’t have a vacuum.”

“No, but the opera neighbors do, that’s not really the point, Phil. The point is after I dusted the ceiling fan I ran out of shit to do and you still weren’t home, so I started trying to sort your vinyl, which is still in the boxes because we don’t even have shelves, it turns out, because we’re useless, and then, well. I remembered what you said about me fidgeting, but I didn’t want to leave, in case you came home, so…” he shrugged. “I got funky.”

Phil swallowed hard. Anything he could say seemed inadequate, or not to the purpose. And he still wasn’t sure whether he was trying to respond to Agent Barton his partner, who he’d failed to update, or Clint Ford his spouse, or— more nebulously— to just plain Clint Barton. 

“I, uh,” he reached into the plastic bag, which was plastered to its contents, and struggled to free them. “I uh… saw we were running low on the kind you like, and I was near a GNC, so… I got you protein powder?”

He held out the jar, which was easily as large as Clint’s head, with both hands. Whether it was meant as a shield or a peace offering, he wasn’t quite sure.

Clint eyed the powder, then him. Then eyed the powder again and reached out cautiously to take it.

“You spent seven hours at a GNC?”

“No, I— there was a lot of stuff. I didn’t expect it to take so long, but I got lost in Menard's for… hours, probably. I’d forgotten that place is a temporal vortex.”

It seemed stupid, to his ears, but it was completely true. He  _ had _ forgotten. He had early memories, before his dad died, of wandering aisles with a rumbling stomach, while his dad cursed in the vinyl siding section. No wonder his mother used to wince whenever a trip was necessary.

Clint wrapped his arms around the powder jar and shook his head, like he was trying to discreetly clear out his throat. He stood there a moment, one thumb rubbing against the jar lid, then turned to take it into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he said, “that happens. Did you save big money, at least?” 

There was a thin thread of humor, strained nearly to the breaking-point, in the question, but he was clearly trying to get them back on even footing.

“Did I save big money?” Phil repeated, still a little lost.

“Yeah,” Clint said, turning around, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “‘When you shopped Menard’s?’”

In what was likely to remain the single most conflicted moment of his life, Phil was overcome simultaneously with the urge to grab Clint by the face and kiss him, and a visceral memory of that stupid, asinine, jingle. The mildew and tobacco scent of his childhood basement came rushing back, the flicker of the commercial on the big console cabinet tv. 

“Oh my god, you sound like my mother,” he managed.

“I— what?” Clint asked. “Phil, what?” He cupped his bad ear, as if he must have heard Phil wrong. That would’ve been nice. At least, though, the temptation to stick his tongue down Clint’s throat was receding.

“Nothing,” Phil said, “just— whenever Dad came back from a trip to Menard’s she used to ask him that. Every time. She thought it was hilarious.” His dad had laughed, too, each and every time. His dad, Phil mused, would never have ended up mostly alone at forty and alienating friends and cats. (Of course not-- his dad hadn’t made it to forty.)

Clint must have seen something in Phil’s face because he was suddenly up close, looking Phil over with worried eyes. 

“It’s—” Phil broke off and shook his head, trying to find the words to get them past it. Clint took advantage of his paralysis to begin stripping him out of his sodden shirt, one button at a time. Phil supposed he was dripping all over the shag carpeting, which didn’t need any more help getting dingy.

“You miss your parents,” Clint said, not meeting Phil’s gaze anymore. 

“Yeah. I— yeah.” Phil heaved a sigh, trying to pull himself back into some semblance of order. How the hell had a stupid commercial jingle managed to get under his skin so badly? “They, um. Dad died when I was eleven. Mom… went about eight years after. It’s been so long since I had a reason to think about that. I didn’t remember it ‘till now.”

His shirt was off now. Clint folded it carefully before draping it over the stair rail. 

“I’ve been there,” he said when his back was turned. “The weirdest shit can spark memories. Glad yours were good.”

Phil fought to recall the sparse details of Clint’s childhood that were available in his SHIELD folders. The background in the circus was so large and spangly it kind of overwhelmed everything else. But he didn’t remember Clint having  _ parents _ in the circus. Before he could find a way to ask— or convince himself that asking was a horrible idea— Clint continued.

“Mine didn’t have that kind of relationship. But. I had one foster dad who was at that place every Saturday. Sometimes he’d take me. It was the only time I got to do something Barney didn’t. He’d sit me down in garden supplies with a snack and a book while he went and— I got no idea what he did. I used to pretend I’d walked through a door and come out in a secret garden, somewhere… somewhere else. That was nice.”

The way he said it, so wistful, Phil was suddenly certain that the circus had been, for him, like that secret door. 

“I’m not convinced there’s not a secret door in garden supplies,” Phil said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m pretty sure I lost time somewhere in the Bermuda’s Triangle of plumbing supplies anyway.”

Clint cracked a laugh. 

“Better than the dimensional portal behind the large appliances. Or the labyrinth in roofing. Jeez, Phil, I’d nearly forgotten about Menard’s. Everyone looks at you weird in DC when you sing that.”

Phil wondered just who in DC Clint had tried the Menard’s jingle on. He hoped it was Jasper. Jasper deserved the earworm.

“Oh I know,” he said. “It’s like they think you don’t speak English, after all. I just stopped paying attention after the bubbler incident.”

Clint froze, and turned slowly to stare at him.

“Phil… are you telling me you’re a cheesehead?”

“Look, Hawkeye,” Phil poked him in the sternum. “You don’t get to talk. And yes— over near Green Bay.”

“That’s not where I get the name and you know it.” Clint said, twinkling at him. “But I bet that’s part of why Fury sent  _ us,  _ right? I mean, Waverly was all prairie, but what’d Fury know? He’d figure it was close enough, we’d blend right in with the natives.”

Phil considered reminding him that they were not SHIELD’s only transplanted Midwesterners, but decided not to. He’d managed to distract Clint from being angry somehow and get him off the subject of dead parents. He needed to not wander further down that path.

“So anyway, if you were really at Menard's where’s the stuff?” Clint asked. He was looking out the window as if, perhaps, Phil had left the stuff in question on the lawn.

“In the car,” Phil told him. “I needed help carrying it in.”

“Heavy?”

“The cinder blocks are. The boards not so much.” At Clint’s confused look, Phil clarified, “I figured we needed shelves. My books are all over the place, and the vinyl’s still boxed and one of these days one of us will break our necks tripping on it.”

Clint looked at the offending book stacks by the futon and nodded thoughtfully.

“All right,” he said.

“All right?”

“You’re entirely forgiven, Mr. Moore. Just answer your damned texts next time. SHIELD’s made me soft, but I’m jumpy without backup here. Let’s go get your shelves.”

“In the rain?”

Clint shrugged, looking him over slowly.

“Why not? You can’t get much wetter and I could use the exercise. Show me to your heavy things and let me demonstrate my utility in this relationship.”

He slipped outside without waiting to see if Phil would follow. Phil, of course, did, but not before a stopped-short moment when he realized that it was the first time he’d talked about his parents in at least a year. And the first time he’d done it without worrying he was about to get “oh you poor orphan”ed in far longer. 

What the hell was Clint Barton doing to him, anyway?

####

If he ran far enough fast enough, Clint hoped he might finally outrun the memory of a wet, shirtless Phil Coulson doing the twist. It haunted his dreams. The entire weekend Phil had alternated between a barrage of unconscious sexy and occasional sneak attacks of sweetness. Clint had felt his defenses withering under the ceaseless attack. 

The twist— which Phil had dropped everything (including a cinder block) in the middle of putting together their shelves to execute— was just the straw that was threatening to break Clint’s back. Clint knew it was his own fault. He’d come to Driftless to learn more about the man behind the Agent Coulson mask, after all. He’d even come expecting to find someone he liked.

And— despite Phil’s apparent inability to keep track of the time when he wasn’t running an op, or the way he cast Significant Glances at Clint’s towels every morning (which Clint was going to deal with, goddamnit, he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet)— he had found someone he liked. 

Coulson was cool but Phil was a blast. 

It was just that he was also still a very attractive man and that was starting to get on Clint’s nerves. He shouldn’t find a white-guy twist as hot as he apparently did when Phil, bowing to the irresistible rhythms of Sam and Dave, had stopped to execute one before picking his cinder block back up and getting back to work.

“Arg,” Clint said to himself, and turned sharply right down a less-traveled path towards the river, trying to rid his head of the image of Phil’s ass dipping low. He’d taken a colder, shorter shower than usual rather than deal with the remnants of his dreams, and it had put him on the running paths with Phil still out. So he’d deliberately set his course to avoid running into his fake husband. 

The day had dawned muggy, but if he was lucky there might be a breeze wafting off the water if he took the river road. He picked up the pace, trying to lose himself in the rhythm of his feet-- pat pat crunch pat pat. He hadn’t passed anyone on the way down. Maybe even undergrad zombies knew better than to try and run when the air was dripping at 6 am.

The path wound beneath a footbridge and down the side of the bluff. As Clint looked upwards he saw the riverside campus buildings loom on the blufftop, the early sunlight reflecting off their windows. It felt like he had wandered backstage at a play, with everything directed up and away towards the public face of the university. The impression was strengthened by the presence of an iron door set into the cliff-face about twenty feet above the ground, obviously disused for decades. Further down, near the base of the bluff, he saw another door set into the sandstone, large enough to drive a truck into and made of reinforced steel. It bore the logo of the campus landscape crew.

The door was speckled, like something huge had flung mud at it. Clint blinked. Sure enough, some of the streetlights on the path below him looked the same way. 

Pat pat crunch crunch crunch pat crunch went his feet. 

He stopped beneath the next light and looked around. There were a few bugs plastered to the panes of glass, long black wings waving weakly in the air like cilia. 

Crunch crunch went his feet, and he lifted one up to look at the sole of his shoe, then at the ground. What he’d taken for a pile of dirt leftover from the recent rains turned out to be a thin carpet of more fly corpses.

“Gah,” Clint said, and suddenly remembered Phil saying something the night before when he’d come home. Something about the fish flies hatching. “ _ Gah _ ,” Clint said again, with greater emphasis, then turned and kept on running.

He’d joked to Phil that Fury’d sent them both because they were vaguely from the area.  _ Vaguely  _ his fucking ass, on the prairie you didn’t encounter foot-high drifts of dead bug carcasses on what were supposed to be relaxing morning jogs.

He debated turning back, but just as he did a breeze tickled his ears. If it was just discreet piles of dead flies beneath streetlights, he could avoid those. The river called. Clint kept on.

Of course, closer to the river it wasn’t just discrete piles of dead flies; they had turned into drifts that crossed the entire broad path, sometimes for yards at a time. He developed a kind of shuffling gait through those patches, trying to sweep the fish flies ahead of him so he’d have solid footing.

It was all in line with the rest of the mission, Clint decided. From a distance everything looked so neat and tidy, so intriguing, but the further in he got the more it was just… carcasses. Old broken pots and old petty arguments and third-hand knowledge. And the university up top, gleaming away like it didn’t care, or notice, what was going on underneath. 

Well— mostly didn’t notice. Once, Clint passed a worker driving a little cart with street sweepers, clearing the path of flies. The entire cart was covered in bug splatter. Another time, he passed a clot of students leaning over the bugs, bagging samples. He wondered whether it was for class, or an art project, or maybe black magic, and decided it was better not to ask.

At least the river itself looked alright, burbling along all brownish-green and glinting in the sunlight. Any other day, this might have been a pretty run. The fish were clearly having a feast; he spotted ripples all up and down the water as they popped up to grab a mouthful of fly. Coming up just ahead of him was an eddy where the banks had tumbled down. Something light moved in the water, waving back and forth in the current like it was beckoning him closer. 

Clint stopped in his tracks.

It was a hand.

He checked again, rubbed his eyes, just to make sure.

No, really, it was a hand.

Clint turned back the way he’d come and yelled to the bug-collectors, before running down to the river.  

Her face stared up at him from the roots of an enormous cottonwood, haloed by fish flies. 

“Oh, Ellen, no,” he said, then fell to his knees.

Above them, on the heights of the bluff, a police siren flared to life briefly then went out. The students he’d called for were running towards him now, followed by the sweeper cart. Clint watched them come, then turned back to the body of Ellen Gideon. 

She was still wearing the flowered sundress he’d seen her in, last week in class, but she hadn’t been nibbled on enough to have been in the water long. She wasn’t too bloated, either. On her collarbone, he could still see the marks where she or someone had traced a set of symbols, all circles and sticks and dots. Traced, he thought, with a knife— or else an extremely finepoint scarlet sharpie.

She’d been alive not so long ago, and Dr. Jones had been worried about her-- and she’d been right.

“I’m so sorry,” he told Ellen.

He’d been looking for some sign he wasn’t on a fool’s errand. Now that he had it, he regretted ever asking.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: very minor character death, with the body described in general terms. Also, icky insects described in specific terms. (I'll tag 'em before the next chapter goes up, but for now am preserving the plot spoiler.)
> 
> Next time: the mission gets very real, Clint and Phil meet several people unexpectedly, and Clint falls. Because the holidays are a hell-time, expect the next chapter sometime between December 24 and 31.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is under investigation, under pressure, undercover, and in over his head. Phil, meanwhile, is trying very, very hard not to think about what he's doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: non-graphic description of dead person
> 
> Thank you all for bearing with me for an extra week-- no matter how much leeway I try to plan into the holidays, they seem to come up faster and rougher than expected. Back to a normal four-week posting schedule for the next update.
> 
> Thanks are also, always, due to LauraKaye for her fabulous beta work, but especially so this chapter for doing so under severe time pressure.

“Hey Phil? The po-po are on the phone,” Jeffrey said.

“You are not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Phil grumbled, pulling his head halfway out of the large box of pilfered Hydra ledgers to listen.

“They say they’ve got a body they want you to look at. Also, your husband.”

“What?” 

Phil jerked upright so fast it made him light-headed. Or that might have been due to the sudden dread.

Jeffrey paled.

“He’s fine,” he hastened to add, holding up both hands. “He’s— sorry, let me try that again. The campus police are on the phone. Your husband found a body, they think it might be that kid that attacked you. They’d like you to….”

Whatever he was going to say next was lost— Phil was already out the door. As he rushed down the hall, he heard Jeffrey calling after him, something about an escort. Phil couldn’t be bothered to care.

He made it across campus to the security office in what would have been record time, had anyone been recording. Or, he  _ would _ have made it in record time, had he not been stopped halfway across the main quad by an undergraduate campus cop in a golf cart, who insisted he get in.

Sensing argument would be futile, Phil complied. They covered the remaining distance at a sedate pace, putt-putting occasionally and veering around students playing ultimate frisbee in unsanctioned areas. Phil attempted to use the time to try and order his thoughts, only to be interrupted by his companion’s nervous attempts at conversation every time he started.

By the time they reached the other end of campus, he was feeling politely murderous. He managed to growl a thank you at his escort as he got out of the cart, tripping over the frame as he did. Once he was untangled, the cart putt-putted back off in  what he would have sworn was a self-satisfied fashion. 

Phil heaved in a deep breath, held it, then buzzed on the intercom next to the anonymous steel door he’d been deposited at.

After a time the door unlocked, and a scratchy voice over the intercom directed him around a corner and up a few steps into the small waiting room-cum-dispatch center. Another uniformed kid was waiting for him there, sitting in front of a bank of monitors. The kid opened his mouth to say something— then shut it fast at whatever he saw on Phil’s face.

“Uh,” he squeaked, “let me get the boss.”

Things moved with satisfactory speed after that. 

“Here, sorry, it’s not pretty. Is that her?” Chief Schunk asked, sliding a glossy photo across her desk at Phil. Her large, plain face was screwed up in distaste, and Phil found he agreed. 

The body in the photo was definitely in bad shape. No amount of SHIELD experience— or Army experience, for Phillip Moore— was going to be sufficient to prevent the sinking in his gut as he looked at it, and the clear evidence of blunt impact trauma and at least a little time spent in the water post-mortem. Still, Phil  _ was _ a professional, and so was Schunk-- even if her jurisdiction covered nothing more than one campus, two sergeants, six patrol officers and a cadre of student security officers. He’d led SHIELD pick-up basketball teams that were bigger. Now wasn’t a great time to show weakness.

He waited until his voice would come out even, then took one last look down at the photo.

God, where had Clint  _ found _ her, and had he had to handle her himself? Had she still been half-submerged? Dumped somewhere convenient? 

“I think so,” Phil said, and heard his voice crack despite his preparation. He swallowed it down. “I didn’t get a close look, but that looks like the dress I remember, yes. And the face doesn’t look wrong. The hair is… I mean I think the hair would be… blonde. And long enough. Do you… do you have an ID?”

Schunk took the photo back and slipped it into a manila envelope, patting it like she wanted to make extra-sure it was shut.

“The guy who found her says she’s Ellen Gideon, an undergraduate student. The guy who found her also says he’s your husband.”

There was a note of caution in her voice. Phil pretended he hadn’t heard it, and let some of his nerves slip in when he spoke instead.

“Yeah, that’s— on the phone, they said that. I can’t believe— shit, poor Clint. Where is he?”

There, that had the right concerned-spouse note.

“We were questioning him here,” Schunk said, looking sour.

“Can I see him?” Phil got up, looking around like he expected Clint to appear at any moment, and headed for the door. Hopefully momentum would carry Schunk along, if she had any half-formed plans to detain Clint longer.

(If she did, Phil had news for her.)

“I said ‘were,’ she sighed. ”Professor Burgoyne from the Anthropology department came in fifteen minutes ago to corroborate the ID, since the parents don’t live in town. Ford— your husband— went with her when she left. A detective from the DPD met them there to get his statement.”

She didn’t look happy about the fact, but given that she hadn’t argued, Phil decided Dr. Burgoyne’s name carried weight. Either that, or the Driftless police wanted jurisdiction, even though the body had been found on University property. He winced inwardly; a jurisdiction battle could be messy down the road. For now, though, he was going to take full advantage of the uncertainty.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m going there, then.”

“I still need more from you,” Schunk said, standing herself. Clearly she wasn’t going to let herself be deprived of  _ both _ halves of the couple in the middle of questioning. Phil moved towards the door.

“You can question me on the way,” he said, like it was a favor he was doing her, and didn’t wait for her answer.

She’d come up behind him before he could make the outer door, reaching past him to scoop keys off a pegboard on the wall.

“All right, I’ll give you a ride,” she said. She didn’t sound too grumbly about it, so Phil figured she must have realized this would get her another chance at Clint, too.

“Great,” he said, and followed her out.

At least she had a real car, not another fucking golf cart.

 

####

Clint sat in the dim cave that was Dr. Burgoyne’s office and cursed the fact that he hadn’t taken any listening devices running with him. He could be planting them under her desk this very moment. Of course, since he had no bugs, he could be committing any number of other acts of espionage, like rifling through her day planner, which was sitting in plain view on the heavy oak desk across from him. Or he could be hacking into her computer to create a back door.  Or any number of other spy-type things, none of which he was currently doing.

No, he was sitting sitting stock still and staring blankly around himself.

He was trying to blame his current paralysis on the fact that Dr. Burgoyne was currently being nice to him, rather than on finding Ellen. The surreal interview with University police, from which Burgoyne had rescued him, might have contributed to his current shock, too. 

Clint had practically had to supervise the campus cops who’d shown up at the river himself, while trying carefully not to look like he was. Not that he blamed them— they were kids, mostly, and the two sworn officers weren’t exactly grizzled vets either. Their chief had gone the opposite direction, all but accusing Clint of having put Ellen’s body there himself. 

All in all, it’d been a fairly trying morning and he was sitting in an office chair from the 1930s in his sweaty running shorts and it was all catching up to him. 

He wondered where everyone was. Burgoyne had dragged him to her office straight through a morning class that Tess had been teaching in the lab; word must be all over already. He’d expected another interrogation. What he’d gotten was Burgoyne asking if he wanted tea then spending a few precious sentences asking how he was feeling.

_ Then _ the interrogation had come, of course, but he couldn’t blame her. Fury would have done the same, minus the tea. There’d been no unexpected questions, just a general curiosity about the state of the body, what security had said, whether Clint had known Ellen personally. And then she’d thanked him for handling things so well.

That last part, Clint found suspicious. 

He hadn’t had time to work it through, though, as the detective from the Driftless Police Department had shown up to take his statement. That was when the shock started to hit and the whole thing had started to feel like a debrief after an op gone badly off the rails. Clint had taken refuge in clipped sentences and a flat tone of voice. 

After a brief pause, the DPD detective had squinted at him and said “where’d you serve?” Upon hearing “Iraq, up until ‘05,” she’d relaxed quite a bit. Burgoyne had stayed in the office throughout, silently daring the detective to tell her to leave. She’d even bridled once or twice in Clint’s defense at what she apparently thought were impertinent questions.

What a difference finding a body made.

She was currently escorting the detective out-- and probably dropping names left and right as she did, along with pointed references to city council members she knew or something like that. 

Clint took one last look around the office and made his decision: he had to get out. If he had to sit there one minute longer he was going to lose it.

Oh, he’d probably regret missing the chance to snoop later— okay, he’d definitely regret missing the chance to snoop, especially when he had to confess to Phil that he’d just been too exhausted, and had to watch Phil carefully hide disappointment in him. Phil, Clint was sure, would have turned the place upside down by now, and probably found some encrypted communication underneath the Minoan snake goddess statuette on the bookshelf or the ram’s horn hanging from the wall. After all, he was an Agent of SHIELD, and that’s what Agents did. They put the job first.

“Fine,” he snapped, pushing himself up from his chair. “Fine, Phil, have it your way.” He rounded the desk in two strides and yanked open the pencil drawer. 

Paperclips and pens rattled, and he immediately regretted his haste. Clint poked through the contents quickly, while muttering under his breath. Nothing suspicious presented itself, just an assortment of pens (mostly fountain, because they  _ would _ be), binder clips, rubber bands, a stash of half-melted cough drops, an assortment of single earrings and pins with the logos of the university, several boards, a couple occult-looking things with latin letters and strange beasts that were probably the emblems of professional associations, and a collection of grouse feathers. 

“In other words, nada,” Clint said to himself. He slammed the drawer shut. “There, Phil, I tried. Now I’m leaving.” 

As he headed for the door, however, he heard Phil’s voice in his head saying “you didn’t check the file drawers?”

“Goddamnit,” Clint sighed. He went to check the file drawers.

They clanked and squeaked as he pried them open, because nothing in the damned university could be well-maintained. Clint paused a moment once the worst of the sound was past, glancing towards the door, before beginning to rifle through. 

He’d been hoping, to the extent he’d hoped, for personnel files, but they weren’t there; perhaps Burgoyne actually kept them under lock and key like people were supposed to but never did. What he found was mostly a mix of files labeled with the names of dig sites— Guatemala, Peru, Macedonia, Iraq, Puerto Rico— and others with the names of academic journals. A couple had those latin letters again: professional associations,  fraternities— and… Clint paused. 

Two files caught his eye. One was labeled “deposition.” When Clint opened it, he found himself staring at a header from the International War Crimes Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia.

As he flipped through the notes he realized that Burgoyne had testified in front of it as part of an international team that had excavated mass graves. Along with the notes, there were official permissions, a sheaf of notes, an old laminated ID with her much-younger face above the logos of the UN, NATO, and the WSC. Then came the pictures, neatly labeled with exhibit numbers and locations.

Clint felt his breath catch, and slapped the folder shut.

He slid it carefully back into its spot, and made to pull out the other folder. This one wasn’t labeled at all. The paper sticking out the top of it bore a Department of Justice header. Clint began to open it.

The click of the door latch was sudden as an electric shock. Clint stuffed the folder down and spun, shoving the drawer closed with his shoulders as he crossed his arms and attempting a casual lean just as the door opened fully. He was sure his face was flaming. Phil was going to laugh his ass off at Clint getting caught like an amateur— and then he was going to ream Clint out because Burgoyne was going to kick him out of the major, if not the campus.

“Clint? What do you think you’re doing?”

See, there Phil went already. God, this was— Clint blinked, and focused.

It wasn’t Burgoyne after all. Phil himself was standing in the doorway, his hand still around the doorknob. He looked a little confused.

He looked even  _ more  _ confused in the split second between Clint flinging himself forward and his face disappearing as Clint kissed him.

He’d meant it to be a short kiss, just a distraction for Burgoyne or anyone else who might happen to be hot on Phil’s heels. And it  _ was  _ fairly short, mostly just a passionate smashing of lips, but its aftereffects lingered unexpectedly. Clint felt his knees wobble, and had to clutch closer around Phil’s neck to keep himself upright. 

“Sorry,” he said, “I’ve just had a real shitty morning.” 

“So I hear,” Phil agreed. He stroked at the small of Clint’s back gently, finally patting him before starting to pry him off. “Chief Schunk let me know what happened.”

“Ugh.” Clint peeked past Phil’s shoulder to see what was keeping Burgoyne, but no one was in the hall except Milo. He blinked at Clint twice, then lifted his hand in greeting. “The way she was going, I think she thought you or I did something to Ellen then I dumped the body.”

“Did she? Huh, no wonder she came with me.”

Clint froze.

“Oh god, is she—”

“Dr. Burgoyne stopped her in the lobby; I was able to get ahead of them. Do you want to go home?” 

“So badly,” Clint sighed. “But if they’re in the lobby, they’ll spot us and start in on me again.”

“Is there another way out?” Phil asked, beginning to lead Clint out of the office. 

“Steam tunnels,” Clint said, pointing to the door that led to them. “But who knows where they go.”

Phil looked in that direction for a moment, then shook his head and tugged Clint towards the now-empty lab and the stairs beyond.

“Tempting as the idea is, I’m guessing the pair of us can manage to slip past two civil— oh fuck.” He stopped short, staring at the stairs that led to the lobby. “They’re coming.”

Clint had figured that one out for himself, though, and was already moving. He yanked open the door to the wet lab and pulled Phil inside with him. As the door closed, they both leaned against it, taking deep breaths. Which turned out to be a mistake.

“Oh my god,” Phil whispered in horror once he’d finished gagging, “why does it smell like rancid shit in here?”

“Becaud,” Clint said, trying to speak at the same time as keeping his nose pinched closed, “dere’s rancid shid id here.” He pointed to a series of test tubes sitting on the far counter, from which the smell was emanating. 

“Why?” Phil asked, in a tone of resigned despair. Clint opened his mouth to answer, then gagged. After a moment he gave up trying to keep the stench out and dropped his hand from his nose.

“Coprolites,” he whispered back. “Bent’s speciality.”

“I thought you said that was  _ fossilized _ dung,” Phil hissed.

“How d’you think you analyze it, Phil? You can’t do it while it’s solid rock, you gotta, uh… rehydrate it.” Clint waved at the test tubes. “Bent tries to do it late at night, but he must’ve been showing someone, or else he ran out of time.”

“What the hell does he do with the shit once he… rehydrates it?”

Clint shrugged.

“Pokes around in it. I dunno, I kinda got lost when he started in on that part in lab. It’s not one of our assignments, thank god.”

“Uh huh.” Phil still looked a little wild-eyed. He pressed an ear to the door. “I can hear Schunk. She’s asking where the hell you went. If we go now—”

“Yeah yeah. Lets.” Clint yanked the door back open, shoved Phil in front of him, and they both booked it up the stairs to freedom, just in the nick of time.

“Well if he was here a minute ago, you’d think he’d still  _ be _ here,” Schunk was saying, off in the distance. “Students don’t just up and disappear, you know.”

Burgoyne didn’t answer that in any way Clint could hear, but he hoped she was glaring. He hoped she was glaring hard.

 

####

“Ugh. So. That happened,” Clint said when they were finally out of the building. 

“It doesn’t seem like the most pleasant way to start the day,” Phil agreed, looking over at him with some concern now that they finally had a moment to breathe. Clint didn’t seem to be in bad shape. Then again, Clint was a trained operative, and he wouldn’t seem to be in bad shape in public, even if he were bleeding out from a knife wound— which was not at all a hypothetical example, and in fact was one of the first times Phil could recall _noticing_ probationary Agent Barton. It was also one of many times he’d been glad he knew how to do field sutures, and the first of many times he found himself trying to ignore just how compelling Barton’s biceps were. 

At any rate, Phil decided, just because Clint looked okay didn’t mean he was— and Phil didn’t enjoy the thought of Clint trying to hold himself together while Phil dragged him through more crowds, even if it was the quickest way to get out of sight of the Forkenbrock Center for the Social Sciences, whose bowels housed the Anthropology department. He debated with himself a moment before deciding on a slightly oblique approach.

“Schunk showed me pictures of the body; it looked… ugly.”

It earned him a nondescript shrug, Clint-standard and not really useful for identifying mood.

“No worse— and a lot better— than a lot of shit we’ve seen over the years.” There was something strangled in his voice, like he didn’t have it under quite the control his body was. 

“Mhm,” Phil said, to buy himself time— then something flashed in his peripheral vision. He stopped so fast that Clint ran into his back.

“Phil?” Clint asked.

“This way.” 

Phil turned him quickly towards the lee of the next building, hiding them both behind the granite balusters of the front steps. Clint looked around him, bewildered.

“What’s wrong? The… golf cart? We’re hiding from a golf cart?”

“A golf cart with a campus cop in it,” Phil replied. Glancing out himself. The cart and its bored undergraduate owner both looked so stationary he expected moss to start growing on them.

“Pretty sure we could just out walk the darn thing if the guy spotted us.”

“Don’t underestimate those; they can easily make ten miles an hour on full-throttle,” Phil grumbled. “I should know. One escorted me all the way from the Borlaug to Security. That’s why I was late.”

It startled a laugh out of Clint, as it was meant to.

“Well that explains your instinctive flight reaction: PTSD.” 

“That— and the kid might be just smart enough to radio Schunk.”

“Might.” Clint watched the golf cart for a moment more, his chest so close to Phil’s back that his breath came soft on Phil’s neck. He seemed more amused now, anyway, which was both a relief and an issue. Phil was pretty sure he shouldn’t be able to tell that Clint was feeling better just from being breathed on. 

Finally, Clint backed off.

“Anyway, she does have our address. I’m sure she can find us whenever she wants to interrogate me further about her suspicions.”

“Her suspicions?” Phil asked, as he turned and waved Clint back out onto the walkway just in front of a clot of babbling students. 

“Pretty sure she’s got an idea you actually attacked Ellen the other day, rather than being the attack-ee. Then, I guess she figures one of us went back later to finish the job and dump the body, then I staged finding it.”

Phil considered for a moment.

“Apart from the question of why Ellen wouldn’t have reported it, that is… shockingly sensible.”

“Yeah well,” Clint said, “I’m sure she’s got reasons she figures Ellen wouldn’t report. And I’ll grant you it makes more sense than a big ex-Army guy getting roughed up by a zombie undergrad.”

“She got the drop on me, I wasn’t expecting— “ Phil caught himself, noting the warmth in Clint’s voice. If teasing was helping Clint deal, he wasn’t going to shut it down. “I suppose we don’t know if we have an alibi for Ellen’s death until we know the time. Or until they do.”

“Probably not,” Clint agreed. “But… she looked, um, fairly fresh, Phil. Best I could tell. I’m not real familiar with what… uh… how to judge when someone went into the water.”

“Mhm,” Phil said, only half registering the words, more concerned that Clint’s humor had dropped away as suddenly as it had come and he was turning pale under his tan— nearly green. They needed to get off the subject. “Well, security’s not exactly tight. We can probably bug the office to find out what they get.”

“I could just let her bring me in for questioning today and plant something.”

That would be the sensible thing to do, yes.

“No.” 

Clint turned, clearly as startled as Phil was by the vehemence in his voice.

“No…” Phil continued, trying to smooth it away. “You deserve a break. ME’s report won’t come in for a while, and we can always check in with Jasper first. Yes it’s a small op, but we haven’t asked him for anything since we got here. If that doesn’t work… maybe tomorrow. We’ll see.”

“Okay,” Clint drew out the word. “But I can do it, Phil. It’s no problem.”

Phil sighed, turning to look him fully in the face. They’d stopped in the middle of the broad walkway, and two students hit him in the back. Phil waited until they’d mumbled apologies, picked up their books and ipods, and gotten back on track, before he spoke. Clint looked curious more than injured, which was a sign of… something. Either trust or exhaustion.

“This isn’t like a normal op,” Phil said, weighting each word carefully for effect before he let it go. “I mean— it’s not like a normal op in a live fire zone, or anywhere else we expect dead bodies.”

“We don’t expect them on every op?” Clint asked, trying for humor and missing it a little. (His arrows never missed, Phil noticed, it was only his words that ever betrayed him.)

“In a general way, but not… not like this. This was… random. Mostly random. And she was… she was just a kid.”

A scared kid, his memory reminded him. Scared and confused and he’d been so stunned that he’d failed to help her. 

“Not the first time I’ve seen a dead scared kid, either,” Clint said, swallowing hard on the end of it. He was staring off into the middle distance, shadows in his eyes as they stood on the sunlit quad.

“Yes,” Phil said gently, “me too. And that’s why.”

Clint sniffed, just once, as if embarrassed to be caught out by it.

“Schunk will be looking for us at home,” he said.

“I know. Come with me; I know someplace no one will look for you. It’s not like anyone in your classes will be that surprised if you aren’t there.”

“Yeah, Burgoyne nearly ordered me not to go,” Clint said. He chewed on his lip a moment before coming to a decision and taking Phil’s arm to be led. As they walked on, he continued. “I don’t think she wants me gossiping before they can get their official story straight, but whatever— I don’t think I would, anyway. So, just where are you taking me?”

“Sanctuary,” Phil said. “I just need to pick something up from the office first.” 

He took them to the History Department, leaving Clint in Phyl’s tender care while he stumbled down the stairs to pick up a few random books. As he’d hoped, when he got back up he found that Phyl had managed to get Clint settled with a hot cup of tea, and that Clint was looking markedly less green about the edges. 

Also, Clint’s counselor had mysteriously appeared, and was sitting on the edge of Phyl’s desk clunking her clogs against the side. 

“Are…” Phil blinked, staring at her. “Did you… have something for Clint?” He couldn’t think of a reason why she’d be there, unless Phyl’d decided Clint needed help from University Health Services, but the woman— Georgina? Georgia? Genny?— was precisely the wrong kind of counselor. 

“Oh no,” the counselor said, looking owlishly at him through her enormous glasses. “No… not at all.”

“Georgie stops by for a chat most days when I’m on break,” Phyl put in, patting the woman’s hand. “Union business— I mean obviously not right now, since I was looking after Clint. But it’s good she came; she was able to reassure your husband about the possible academic consequences of finding a body.”

“There aren’t any,” Georgie put in hastily. “Obviously. But, of course, there are counselors through UHS if you want me to put you in touch. Uh… you know, for bereavement or, well not exactly that but in case it… you know… becomes a thing. With your…” she trailed off and waved both hands at her head. Obviously unsure how to tell Clint he might want emotional support.

Phil sympathized— it had taken him years to get good at having that conversation with people at SHIELD.

“Thanks,” Clint said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. Good.” Georgie nodded. “Good. I mean, not  _ good  _ just— the University doesn’t want any dead bodies to affect your academic or emotional performance. At least, as long as they’re not your own.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, looking far too innocent, “I guess that would put a crimp in my post-graduation plans.”

On that note, Phil decided, it was high time to get Clint and himself out of the building.

He pulled Clint away and led him back to the quad. When they were in the open air once more, Clint shook his head.

“I told you my counselor was weird,” he said. “Glad to know that short of being dead this shouldn’t affect me, I guess.” It came out bitter.

“Clint—” Phil started.

Clint turned his face away and looked down at his shoes.

“I feel like I could have stopped it somehow,” he said. “I even saw her on the first day of classes, and she looked like hell. I should have known. I was so caught up in this stupid idea that maybe Fury was wrong and there wasn’t anything here and I saw but I didn’t… I didn’t  _ see _ see.”

Phil grabbed his hand; they were in public, Clint wouldn’t think anything of it, and Phil was desperate for some way to transfer reassurance without words.

“There is… there is  _ no way _ you could have stopped this. We don’t even know what this  _ is _ , or if it has anything to do with Magnos’s disappearance.”

“You don’t believe that for a second,” Clint said sourly.

“Okay, I don’t. Call it field agent instincts. They’re connected. But you can’t beat yourself up for something that wasn’t even on our radar. You didn’t know that Ellen was the girl who attacked me, and even if you had— what? You would have sent her to UHS? Called her mom? Talked to… Burgoyne? Tess Coyle? Cassie? Chief Schunk? We don’t know if anyone could have helped her, or how she ended up in the river, so how could you have stopped it? There was nothing you could do.”

“And a whole big fat lot of nothing is exactly what I did.”

Phil elected to address that by squeezing his hand rather than trying to reason with him.

“Well… at least we know now that whatever happened in Guatemala didn’t stay there— and that it’s affecting the students, not just the staff who were there. Okay, in this door and then down the hall— no, the darkened one.”

“Are you trying to entomb me?” Clint asked, as he rattled along behind Phil down the stairs.

“I told you,” Phil said, leading him further into the bowels of the Borlaug Memorial Library, “sanctuary.”

They emerged some minutes later into the dim light of the Dugan archives. Clint stopped short, his jaw dropping open. Phil, looking at him, felt his breath stop in his throat and his chest seize up and had no idea why.

“Hello there,” Jeffrey said, wheeling around to greet them and looking Clint over with interest. “What have we here?”

“You know what we have here,” Phil told him. “My husband. Clint, this is Jeffrey. Jeffrey, Clint. We’re taking refuge from chief Schunk,”

“Hrmph,” Jeffrey said, looking Clint up and down, “she’s bound to call.”

“I’m not here,” Clint told him. “I’m no one.”

“Fine, No One, you’re going to have to work for it.” 

Jeffrey pointed at Clint’s arms, one after the other. Clint followed his fingers and smiled.

“You need lifting and sorting? I’m your man; the anthro department trained me well.”

“Great,” Jeffrey said, looking him over once more then beginning to wheel himself over to a shadowed corner of the archives. “My casual help is being casually unhelpful right now, and you may have noticed that the high shelves are a little hard for me. I’ve got a  _ lot _ of things you can restock. Mostly boxes. Heavy ones.”

“Well,” Clint sighed, looking them over, “at least I’ll get my exercise in today.”

 

####

“I think you’re doing all right, actually-- double-shot whole milk latte and a turkey sandwich,” Tess said, half to Clint and half to the barista. “I’ve been checking over all the lab entries in the database— quality control, you know— and yours are great. You’ve got a keen eye for potsherds— oh and one of those poppyseed things, please; no, the one with the icing. Thanks.”

“That’s good to hear,” Clint told her. He watched as she paid, then moved with her to the pick-up counter where his order was already waiting. “It feels like I’m drowning.”

“Oh no, no, no, no— I really should have gotten one of the parfaits, too. Oh well. Anyway, no I think you’re doing fine. Milo doesn’t even roll his eyes when he’s grading your lab books. Much, anyway. Not more than Milo-standard. Look,” she turned away from the counter to face Clint, biting her lip as she did. “I’m not sure I should mention any of this….”

Clint shifted and tried to look trustworthy and innocent. After a couple days of incremental progress on mapping the relationships all the lab students had with Ellen, he’d become aware he was missing big parts of the picture. He needed a firm ally behind the office doors. Tess had come up as the obvious choice, so he’d faked— well, not really faked— an attack of academic nerves and turned up at her door just before lunch. They’d wandered over to the coffee cart outside the main quad, which also did pre-fab sandwiches and gritty quick breads, as they talked.

“If you can’t tell me, that’s fine,” Clint said as the silence stretched long. 

Tess shook her head.

“No, no that’s not— ah, yeah, thanks, do you have napkins? Right— oh, thanks Clint. Let’s go over and grab a bench. That one looks squirrel-free. For now. No, it’s not… you just need to keep it quiet, okay? I know you and Cassie are, like, tight, and that’s good. But she just… she can  _ talk _ a bit.”

“Yeah, no, my lips are sealed,” Clint assured her. Tess looked up at him and nodded.

“You probably deserve to know anyway, since you discovered Poor Ellen—” it was amazing how quickly Ellen’s name had taken on a Capitalized Adjective after her death— “but it’s made Miranda take a really close look at all the students who came back from Guatemala. Like, it was traumatic, you know, when Dr. Magnos disappeared. A lot of the kids were really scared. I can’t say I was any better— ugh, I lost  _ days _ where I don’t remember much but being terrified. God, I hate to think about what anyone watching me must have thought.”

“I bet everyone felt the same way.” Clint let a hand drift to her shoulder for a just a moment; she looked genuinely wrecked at the memory. Tess nodded, sniffed, and took a large bite of sandwich.

“Mebbe. Bu ah any wate… hod on.” She swallowed hard and followed it up with coffee, “At any rate, Miranda doesn’t want anyone  _ else _ jumping off a bridge—”

“Is that what the police think?” Clint asked. “They didn’t seem sure, last time they checked in. They were asking me all kinds of questions.”

“Well it’s what I heard. Anyway if she’d jumped off the cliff she’d have hit the street, so— but ugh, I’m sorry, that’s morbid. I don’t want to talk about it at lunch. It’s different for you, I guess.”

Clint wasn’t sure  _ how _ it was supposed to be different for him, but also really didn’t want to ask.

“But now, so, Miranda’s started asking me and Milo to keep an eye on the students from Guatemala,” Tess continued. “You know, make sure no one else is wigging out. It was pretty bad for a while, it’s why we had to get them out early. They’d started going around in, like, posses after dark to make sure no one was left alone. Ellen was actually one of the only ones that didn’t do that— I don’t know, she was nervous about her lab hours. I found her at the digs after dark more than once. In retrospect… I should have seen she was near breaking. I really should. I…” she broke off to sniffle, wiping her nose with the back of the hand that held the sandwich. 

“You couldn’t have known,” Clint told her gently, then turned away to give her some space to pull herself together. He looked out over the students on the quad as he sipped his coffee— the kids playing hacky sack under the stand of oaks, the professors hurrying up the marble steps into Borlaug, the red-headed girl threading her way across the quad in the periphery of his— 

“Holy fuck,” Clint said, after he’d finished spraying his mouthful of coffee over everything.

“What’s wrong?” Tess asked, handing him napkins.

“Nothing,” Clint shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s— let’s get back. I have afternoon labs.”

He hoped it was nothing, anyway.

\---

Of course it wasn’t nothing.

She was waiting for him when he came up out of the archaeology hall in Forkenbrock, standing in the shadow of a large kiosk covered in flyers.

“Not here,” Clint hissed at her, and kept walking.

She shadowed him until he had made it out the back door and past the smokers on the walk. Then he slowed down and she sped up, and soon they were walking side by side.

“I have to be home for dinner soon, or Phil’s going to worry,” Clint told her. “And I’m trying to be a good husband.”

“So it’s true, you are on an op,” the Black Widow said, sounding somewhat shocked. It didn’t show on her face-- she still looked like a generic student, slogging a backpack and carrying a battered pink reusable coffee cup-- but of course it  _ wouldn’t _ show on her face. Natasha Romanov was so good at controlling her emotions that even the little she’d let out in her voice surprised Clint.

“What the hell else do you think I’d be here for?” Clint asked, trying to keep his voice low and even despite a strong desire to yelp at her. “And why the hell are you here? Did Sitwell send you? Do you have back up anywhere? I didn’t think they’d let you off-leash yet.”

“No one sent me.” She had control of her voice now. She sounded completely unconcerned--  but there was concern in her eyes when she darted a glance at Clint— concern and what looked like growing irritation. “I was worried about you, you idiot. One day you were there, the next, gone, and no one would tell me where or why.”

Clint closed his eyes. 

“Did we somehow forget to tell you that you’d signed on to a spy organization, Nat?” he asked, then winced. He’d just sounded  _ exactly _ like Phil. They must be rubbing off on each other.

Metaphorically.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Natasha told him, moving to the side as a unicyclist passed on her left, “I assumed SHIELD would have need-to-know. I also assumed that  _ you _ would know that  _ I  _ needed to know you were leaving.”

“Oh come on, you didn’t think you were going to get rid of me that easily, did you?” He said it lightly enough, but her return look was heavy. 

He was an idiot; of course that wasn’t what had worried her. It was the idea of being got rid of herself that had her nervous, and he’d been around that block often enough to know. Or else the idea that SHIELD was trying to get rid of him and not tell her, which also was a valid worry after his near-miss at a disciplinary hearing for bringing her in.

“Jesus, Nat,” he sighed, “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll tell you, okay? Or tell you I can’t tell you but not to worry. But you’ve got to get home— I’m undercover, you’re not cleared, you can’t—”

“Oh I’m cleared,” she told him, sounding more like her usual unruffled self. “Agent Sitwell confessed all. Eventually.” 

“That is… first of all, that wording worries me. Agent Sitwell is the best patsy we have, Nat, and now I’m not sure if I’m worried that you managed to successfully interrogate him or that he managed to make you of all people think that you had. Second of all, that is not at all the same as actually being cleared to  _ be here—  _ please tell me you didn’t go AWOL.”

That earned him a wounded glare, of the  _ do you honestly think I’m that unsubtle _ variety. Clint winced.

“Sorry, dumb question.”

“Apology accepted. No,” Nat sniffed, “I asked Director Fury for some leave, as an expression of good will. I assume he tried to have me followed; if so he needed to try harder. Perhaps he was using it as a training exercise. I hear he does that.”

“Oh god,” Clint sighed. “Well, fine, I suppose that’s your funeral to deal with when you get back.”

“It is. Now, invite me somewhere and tell me why you, of all people, are doing undercover work. You were hopeless in Budapest.”

“I was  _ trying _ to be hopeless in Budapest,” Clint countered. 

“You were doing a very good job.” Natasha told him. “And I’m hungry. Buy me food. It’s the least you can do.”

He took her to the Student Union, on the grounds that once the beer started flowing no one was paying attention to what anyone said at adjacent tables. As Natasha leaned back in her chair, looking over the terrace railings at the river far below, Clint watched her. She was picking at her cheese curds delicately, kicking one leg, and looking completely at home and at ease.

She grinned back at him as if she were some long-lost best buddy, not the half brainwashed assassin he’d dragged home six months before. All of a sudden, he missed DC— and realized that he hadn’t, not really, until that moment. The University might be foreign territory to him still, his carpeting might be gold shag and his curtains sheer, the insects legion, but there was still something weirdly welcoming about Driftless.

Maybe it was Phil.

“Ugh,” he sighed. “I’m in deep.”

Natasha turned, raising one eyebrow.

“Is this meant to be a long-term cover?”

“No— that’s not what I— at least, if it’s a long-term cover, we’re all screwed.” Clint paused to take a drink and order his thoughts.

“Did Sitwell tell you what we’re doing?” he asked after he swallowed. Natasha shook her head. “Okay, so I won’t tell you either, except a SHIELD scientist got lost in Guatemala so we’re here trying to find out why. Or, I’m here to find out why. Phil’s here to help, and also to be part of my cover, and also also to finish his dissertation. And so it could be short or it could be long, I don’t know.”

“Those are hard,” she said gently, “the ones with uncertain end dates. Especially if you’re living the cover the whole time.”

“It’s not… it’s not the  _ whole _ time, when we’re at home we can be… well we can be  _ less _ couple-y. I mean we still have to sleep together— no, not like that, just in the same bed,” he hastened to add, as both her eyebrows shot up. “And make dinner and cuddle sometimes-- you know.”

“I do,” Natasha agreed, and Clint realized that of course, her covers were often uncertain and she had nearly always had to keep the cover secret even from her partner— or mark, really. At least he and Phil were a team. “You’ve never done something like this before, I think?”

Clint picked out a curd of his own and examined it carefully, admiring each batter-gilded crag, before he spoke. He knew what Natasha was getting at, and he tried to bite down on the instinct to tell her it was nothing, he was fine. Just  _ fine _ . 

Because he wasn’t, and he was never going to find a more expert expert to talk to about it.

“Sometimes as a merc, I guess— honestly, with all the fake IDs I had, maybe _ all _ the time as a merc. Not really with a partner, but the basics are the same. There are parts that bug me about it-- mostly those are the parts where I’m supposed to actually go to class and do homework. But— there’s a thrill to it too, you know?”

“A thrill?” It was Natasha’s turn to examine the cheese curds. “I do not know what these are, but they are truly terrible. And I need at least ten more of them. I can’t say I ever felt much thrill. It’s just,” she made a kind of wide spiraling gesture with the hand holding the curd, “business, I suppose.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t grow up in the circus, doll,” Clint said, then cursed inside his head. No, that was not where she’d grown up, not at all. “I like giving a performance. God, I like having an  _ audience  _ again. All this infiltration business, being a sniper, spying, assassinating people— you do it right and no one knows you’re doing it. But before all that, I used to put on purple spangles and do backflips off a horse while shooting. It’s… it’s that same kind of feeling. Making people clap and love you, you know?”

He’d been speaking faster and faster as he went, largely because the truth of the words was hitting him harder as each one tumbled out. 

Worries about Burgoyne, and tests, and Poor Ellen aside, he really was having fun. And— 

“And it’s especially good if you’ve got a partner you trust to catch you, and let me tell you Phil’s  _ good _ .”

“Mmm, he has quite the reputation at SHIELD.” Natasha said, eyeing him closely. 

“All deserved,” Clint said fervently.

“Are we talking about the same reputation? When I asked Agent May, she was quite loyal to him, and said nothing. But her silence was eloquent.” 

His wince probably told Natasha enough, without him having to say anything. 

“I’ve— Bobbi warned me,” he said. “But it’s all lies. Phil is— he’s not perfect, okay, he has his issues, and his socks, but he’s exactly what I need. He.”

Clint paused, trying to find something that would convince her, and put his cheese curd back in the basket emphatically.

“Okay. So. This girl died the other day, right? We don’t… never mind the details, but I found the body and it wasn’t… I’m used to bodies, but this one hit me hard. And Phil noticed it immediately, even though I was doing my best to hide it, and got me somewhere I could just process. Didn’t press--” Clint frowned as he thought about it-- “okay, in retrospect, maybe he pressed, but not more than I needed him to. He just… knew what I needed. I’ll deal with him removing his socks under the covers every night and kicking them to the bottom of the bed if it gets me that.”

Natasha sat back, watching him silently for a moment. Clint himself was a little lost in thought, remembering how unexpectedly he’d cracked under Phil’s gentle concern. It didn’t sit neatly on either side of the Phil/Coulson divide.

“Does the girl still worry you?” Natasha asked after a little silence, which was not what Clint had expected.

“Eh,” he said. “I mostly don’t think it’s my fault anymore. Mostly. Maybe… not more than usual. Tell you what though, chief Schunk of Campus Security thinks it’s all my fault. I— hah. Hey, Nat.”

“Clint?” Natasha asked warily, her hand paused over the curd basket like she was suddenly unsure they weren’t loaded. 

“Wanna do Sitwell a favor while you’re here? In case you’re not really as sure of your welcome home as you’re telling me you are?”

“I’m perfectly certain of it,” she said. “But go on.”

“Phil’n’I could use an alibi for the time of her death— which we don’t know yet. Care to fix that up for us?”

She made a show of thinking it over, but Clint was unsurprised when she nodded finally.

“Give me details before I go,” she told him. 

“Great,” he grinned at her. “Phil will be happy. That makes me feel better.”

“Making him happy makes you feel better?”

It was amazing how fine the mason work on the terrace rail was, when you looked at it closely. Limestone smoothed nearly as fine as marble. Wow.

“Clint?”

“Well it should, shouldn’t it?”

Good god, why did he sound belligerent to himself? Phil was his partner on this stupid op, it was a good thing when Phil had what he needed. That wasn’t something to get defensive about, and why the hell was she asking? Natasha was considering him like he was as dubious as the cheese curds. It made him gulp.

“Does he feel the same way?”

“Well I. Um. Yes? I think so?” Clint said, feeling himself flush hot. “He tries hard to make me happy anyway— there was this stupid cupcake, I mean he messed up with it, but he tried. It’s just hard to tell what he’s thinking; he’s so professional.”

“I would think that was a good thing.” Her voice was almost aggressively neutral.

“Eh,” Clint said, “it grates on you, on long missions. But I think Phil knows that, ‘cause he lets himself go all, all  _ goofy _ with me sometimes. So he’s got to trust me, right? Unless he just can’t not be goofy in his own home, which would be— actually, wow, kind of flattering. I mean that he feels that relaxed around me. And it actually makes it easier to stay in character, because I want to make sure it’s all going well, right? Like, real me messes this shit up, but Clint Ford, he’s hooked this guy and he’s smart enough to keep him.”

“Clint—” Natasha started, but Clint didn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear her; the words wouldn’t stop now.

“He’s great though, Nat, not just as Phillip Moore but as… as Phil, okay? We’re… we talk about things I don’t think I’ve talked about with anyone in years, and I don’t want to run away when we do. He doesn’t make me prickly— often, anyway. And he gets the little things, like knows what kind of protein powder I like and even likes it too. How often does that happen? And— I don’t know how to explain this, it’s just— he tries. He tries  _ so hard _ and at SHIELD he looks like everything is just easy and god that’s kind of devastating that he can do that. I wish I could. I wish— whenever we get back I’m just going to sit there and watch him in meetings and feel smug, because I  _ know _ there’s a Phil underneath that Agent suit, and he’s cooler than anyone suspects and— oh.”

Clint sat straight up, bumping the table with his knees and sending curds flying. 

“Oh  _ shit _ .”

Natasha was stone still, watching him. He suspected she knew a dead man walking when she saw one, and was keeping still out of respect.

“Oh shit, shit,  _ shit _ ,” Clint moaned. He turned to face her, knowing he probably looked like he’d just eaten a very bad shrimp. He certainly felt like it. “I’m in love with Phil Coulson.”

There seemed, to his popping ears, to be a sudden silence all over the terrace.

There wasn’t, not  _ really _ , or Natasha would have noticed it, it just felt like such a naked and horrible realization ought not to be lost on cheese curds and treetops. 

“Clint,” Natasha said gently, and Clint refocused on her face. Her kind, mercifully blank, face. “That’s very nice.”

“No, it’s not,” he groaned.

“Okay, it’s not nice. But I was only asking whether he liked working with you, too.”

He was probably silent for far, far too long.

In his defense, Clint figured that he’d already said more than enough. He clearly couldn’t trust his mouth at all.

“Clint?” Natasha prompted him, her voice starting to go a little nervous just at the edges, “Clint… it’s okay. It’s absolutely okay.”

She patted him delicately on his shoulder, and that was the final straw. He was being comforted by the Black Widow, and she looked like he was a particularly diabolical explosive device on an uncertain timer.

He put his head down on the table and whacked it a few times. 

“I can’t believe I went and fell in love with my fake husband,” he muttered.

“It gives new meaning to living your cover, certainly,” Natasha agreed. “I can’t say I’ve ever been tempted. But is it really that bad?”

Clint thought about Phil, twisting with him in the living room to Sam and Dave as they put together shelves. Riding to his defense on a golf cart the other day. Geeking out over v-mail and charring kale. And then he thought about himself and Bobbi, and how long it had taken them to like each other again after they split. How much he’d hated himself every time she tried to hide how he’d let her down. 

And now he was going to do that to Phil. Phil who’d never wanted  _ any _ of this, who had a long-standing policy of running the opposite direction from anything that looked like feelings.

“Oh yes,” he sighed, “it’s bad.”

“Well,” Natasha said reasonably, “it’s not like you have to do anything about it, if it would be that bad.”

Clint sat up, staring at her.

“No I don’t,” he said, wonderingly. “No, I suppose I really don’t, do I? Huh.”

“Good,” Natasha agreed, still eyeing him carefully.

“Good,” Clint agreed. “Hell, it’s not like he would ever love me back, anyway. I’m perfectly safe.”

It made him feel so much better, he popped three cheese curds in his mouth at once. Crisis averted. Bless Natasha. Bless her.

####

The back of his neck was prickling. Phil reached up absently to smooth down the hairs, and hit Clint’s thigh with the back of his hand. It startled him a little; Clint usually didn’t nest quite so close on the futon.

They’d claimed their territories early on, and had been getting on in the evenings with little or no deviation. Clint sat or lounged on the futon doing his readings with his papers spread out to either side of him. Phil sat on a cushion on the floor with his back propped against the futon, and used the coffee table to hold his laptop. His own reference materials were usually within easy reach, either in a pile or on their new shelves.

While the computer upstairs was nominally Clint’s, Phil had never seen him use it for homework— he supposed Clint must write any assignments during the day while Phil was gone. Then again, the computer upstairs was also their main link back to SHIELD and was set up to receive the so-far-nonexistent fruits of their listening devices. Maybe Clint just didn’t want to mix up surveillance and reading responses. 

Anyway, it was unexpectedly companionable to work together— and very productive. Left to himself, Phil drifted off into the wild corners of the internet, down a wikipedia spiral, or just into the middle distance. But not when Clint was working diligently just behind him; he wouldn’t want to look like he was slacking off. 

He looked up, to find Clint looking down at the thigh Phil had brushed. When he caught Phil’s eye, he grimaced. 

“Sorry,” he mouthed, and shuffled a little further off.

Phil shrugged an _ it’s nothing _ sort of shrug up at him and turned back to his work. He was trying to flesh out the section in which he discussed Peggy Carter’s attitudes towards 084s and other crypto-scientific advances. She’d carried her attitude towards them— usually far more trouble than they were worth— with her from her encounters with Hydra and the post-war mopping up she’d done with the Howling Commandos. Or so Phil intended to argue, especially now that he had Dugan’s personal notes on some of the more arcane items they’d encountered. It was fascinating to see how his highly descriptive invective about some of them (”it’ll take your bloody arm off and cauterize the fucker too”) translated into official documentation and storage.

Except that he was beginning to think he had a problem, because he was staring down at a description of a device that they’d found in a bunker high in the Carpathians and it didn’t match anything Phil had ever seen in SHIELD’s files. And Phil had made it a point to know what was in them all. Dugan didn’t know what the thing did— it was thin and silver and emitted a kind of high-pitched squeal while projecting symbols on a wall— but he did say that the SSR was shipping it off for storage.

“Arg,” Phil said, and tipped his glasses up so he could rub his hands over his eyes. 

“Hey.” Clint’s hand came down on his shoulder, flexing gently. “Rough time?”

Phil froze, as a thumb ghosted over the back of his neck. 

It moved away quickly, leaving Phil helpless against the sudden full-body prickle sweeping over him.

“Sorry,” Clint said again. “I just. You looked tense.”

Phil considered.

It was a bad idea. It was a  _ horrible _ idea, to encourage his traitor brain to ask for the thing it had gotten into itself at the moment. But, well… his shoulders  _ hurt.  _ And this 084 mess was giving him a stress headache, and if he didn’t get rid of it he wouldn’t be fully asleep before the opera neighbors started on their nightly two AM concert (they’d been on a Rossini kick lately). And if Phil didn’t get to sleep tonight, he’d fall asleep in the middle of working with Jeffrey tomorrow and the last time he’d done that he’d woken up to find that Jeffrey had labeled him for acquisition. Jeffrey had a terrible sense of humor.

“No, it’s fine,” Phil said, willing it to be true. “In fact… if you don’t mind, I’ve got a headache coming on, and—”

“Say no more. I’m the king of neck stuff.” 

Clint cracked his knuckles, and Phil braced himself for the touch.

It didn’t come.

“Your Majesty?” Phil asked, confused, “you uh… need me to move or anything so you can get a better angle?”

Another pause.

“No, um. No. I’m good, I’m just… look, tilt your head a little more—” Clint’s big palm came down on the crown of Phil’s head and pressed gently— “and that’ll work.”

Clint traced his fingers down from Phil’s temples to the back of his neck and pressed his thumbs into the divots where Phil’s skull met his spine. And all of a sudden, good ideas and bad both fled from Phil’s head. All he felt was warmth flooding his sinus cavities.

It shouldn’t have felt quite as sensual as it did, but Phil figured that was just the price of being around Clint, and he gave in to the fingers as they wandered down to this shoulders and Clint started to work in earnest.

The 084s could, Phil decided, wait until tomorrow. And then he’d ask Jasper to do some quiet checking for him on the old inventories. Meanwhile, there was no harm in enjoying this. He leaned back into the touch and sighed.

####

It was no good, no good at all. Clint had no idea where he’d ever gotten the idea this would be alright— maybe from Natasha. It seemed like something that would be her fault. Yes, on reflection, it had definitely been her. She was the one who had convinced him that realizing he’d fallen in love with Phil Coulson didn’t have to change anything.

Because of course it did. It changed  _ everything _ . Now, when Clint stared at Phil’s hands as they tapped away on his keyboard, he knew exactly what he wanted those hands to be doing, how he wanted those fingertips to settle in along his jawline, pull him forward to be kissed. Now when Phil laughed to himself over whatever he’d just written, Clint felt his stomach twist with longing. Now Clint wanted to stroke the crinkles of Phil’s eyes, put his laptop aside and climb into his lap, join him at the sink after dinner and dry the dishes as Phil washed. Now every moment they were together, from dawn long into the night, was an exercise in self control, and that had never been Clint’s strong suit.

Of course Clint didn’t  _ do _ anything about it. He also didn’t run away; he just went on day after day trying to ritualize each of his reactions to Phil a little more, alternately trying put distance between them without letting Phil know he was doing it and indulging when the need got too desperate. They were undercover; he couldn’t afford to drive Phil away right now. Once they were done, once they were back at SHIELD, either this would go away or… or Clint could regretfully draw back from the friendship they were developing here. Whatever it took to fall out of love with Phil, before Phil found out and Clint ruined everything. 

Clint wasn’t entirely sure how you went about falling out of love with someone. He turned the problem over in his mind during the long, mostly-sleepless nights he spent being hyper aware of Phil’s presence next to him, his chest sighing up and down, his body too close and too warm in the summer humidity and inadequate air conditioning. He’d never had to fall out of love before, mostly people fell out of love with  _ him _ , and Clint just went along hurting until he fell in love with someone else instead. 

“There’s got to be a way,” Clint muttered to himself. “People do it all the time. Maybe there’s a hidden trick.”

“I think usually they just read the labels, Mr. Ford,” Dr. Santander said, from behind him.

Clint stood up so suddenly he hit his head on the corner of a tupperware hanging off the shelf above him. This whole love situation was turning his situational awareness to shit. His mind kept drifting Phil-ward when it was supposed to be concentrated on sneaking.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his head and turning to face Dr. Santander. “Sorry, I was… I was…” he bit his lip, and tried to find an innocent way to explain why he’d been half-buried in the shelving unit in the far back of the storage room.  “I was… just looking for the artifacts from the trash pit in quadrant 4.” 

They were three aisles down, as he’d found out during lab work three days ago, when he’d actually been looking for them. Dr. Santander told him so, and moved aside to lead him that way. 

“Thanks.” Clint lifted the lid to peer into the tupperware closest to him. “What’re these, then? They’re labeled trash, too.” 

“Coprolites,” Santander said. “From Mr. Lewis’s collection.”

“Oh.” 

Clint closed the lid delicately, then moved away before Dr. Santander could notice that the container now held a small listening device as well as its usual load. He’d have to come back later to finish retrieval As he followed Santander down the far wall, he rubbed his eyes to try and wake himself up better. He had to get more sleep and stop drifting, he was going to get caught.

As Santander led him down the last aisle, Clint stubbed his toe and pitched forward over one of the bas reliefs. Santander made a little distressed squeak as Clint pushed himself up on the relief; probably more worried about the artifact than the undergraduate. (Of the two, Clint supposed he was the more replaceable.) 

Clint brushed the dust off his knees while he caught his breath. And then he stopped. There was something off about this corner. Something out of place. 

“Come on, Mr. Ford, I need to meet Dr. Jones for lunch. Let’s get you to your trash pit.” 

“Right,” Clint sighed, and took one last look around. It was the corner with the relief of the goat and the weird helmet thing. Not much seemed to have changed since he’d last been there trying to retrieve his bugs. The crate opposite them had shifted a little bit, maybe, and someone had been by— a lone set of dirty prints led out towards the door. 

Whatever it was, it would have to wait. Clint straightened up and followed Santander.

He was back in the lab room, sorting gopher cervical bones with Quentin, when it suddenly hit him.

The footprints.They hadn’t come  _ from _ anywhere. The only thing behind them was a limestone wall.

####

“When are you going to bring your man back down here?” Jeffery asked, not bothering to look up from the stack of catalog cards he’d been transcribing into his computer. Phil glanced up from his position at the other table, where he’d been flipping through Dugan’s fourth diary with cotton-gloved hands, looking for entries from their Serbian missions.

“Why would I?” he asked. Clint hadn’t done anything to make himself unwelcome during his sojourn in the archives, but Phil didn’t think he’d done anything particularly memorable either.

“Dunno,” Jeffrey shrugged. “Going on the lam again? Authorities hassling him?”

Phil closed his eyes and sighed. He realized that harboring Clint was the most exciting thing that had happened to Jeffrey in, probably, a decade. But the joke was wearing thin, and it had never been thick. 

“No one’s on the lam from anything. Clint was just… a little overwhelmed, is all. I wanted to buy him some time to calm down.”

No one was currently on the lam, it was true; Clint had been passed the ME’s report nearly as soon as it had gotten drafted. Ellen Gideon, it seemed, had suffered blunt force trauma just before going in the water. She’d only been dead about ten hours when Clint had found her. 

Conveniently enough, it turned out that Clint’s good friend Natalie Rushman had been visiting them that evening, and she’d called the Driftless PD to confirm when asked, even volunteering her Greyhound tickets and motel information. Chief Schunk had reluctantly given up her questioning— at least for the moment.

“Thank god for the Black Widow. I don’t think Jasper could have cooked up something half as convincing,” Phil had said to Clint, who’d snorted.

“Yeah, thank god for Nat’s paranoia, all right. I think she’s still half convinced Fury’s trying to get rid of me on the down low. Suppose she wouldn’t want to see me in a Driftless jail.”

“Hopefully she can read Fury better than that,” Phil had protested. “If he’d wanted you gone, you’d be gone and he wouldn’t have bothered being subtle. But I don’t know why he’d want that; Romanov is a valuable asset and you went out on a limb for her. Yes, it was high risk, but you judged it well.”

“I did not,” Clint had said, looking a little wounded. “I didn’t judge it at all, Phil. She just… I just. You try seeing that face through your scope and not snapping, okay? I’m not a master strategist or anything like that, please don’t expect that from me.”

Phil’d pursed his lips and stayed quiet, wondering why he wanted to argue with Clint so badly that it  _ must _ have been something more than sympathy for a beautiful woman. Their conversation in the tree had drifted back to him like an unwanted ghost, Clint admitting to his own tendency to fall in love fast and let it lead him wherever the object of his love wanted it to go. And Romanov clearly felt strongly enough about him to have risked her first leave time to come and check on him.

Why the hell did that fact make him grumpy? Sure it wasn’t exactly professional, but Phil’d never been huge on maintaining a strict work/personal separation. Anyway, Fury didn’t seem to disapprove, and he was the Director. So did it really matter that much whether Clint was in love with the Black Widow?

“… to come and help out. My usual guy’s disappeared.” 

“What,” Phil said, snapping out of his reverie. Jeffrey frowned at him.

“Well, he hasn’t shown up.” Jeffrey waved his hand at the boxes in the corner, which hadn’t diminished in the days since Clint had worked on them. “He was always a little flaky, but he was getting paid.”

“Who was flaky?” Phil asked, turning fully around, confused. He’d never seen anyone down here but himself, Jeffrey, and occasionally Phyl.

“Hudson,” Jeffrey said. “Peter Mahakian’s little protégé. Lives and breathes World War II covert operations, because he’s an absolute cliche. Still, he has a nice set of muscles on him, and I needed the help sorting. And he’s a decent assistant when he’s not too busy getting high to remember to come in. But it’s been a week now; this isn’t like him.”

“Uh, Jeffrey, are you saying he’s disappeared?”

“Oh I’m sure he’s around somewhere,” Jeffrey said airily, “maybe got lost in his own dorm room and can’t find the door. Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Okay but… have you tried calling him? His roommates? What does Peter say?”

Jeffrey looked up at Phil and blinked.

“That they haven’t seen him,” he said, his eyes beginning to grow wide. “Phil, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Phil said, although really he was sighing because this was a complication no one needed, “that maybe one of you should call Chief Schunk and report it.”

Another missing student. Phil squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Clint was not going to take this well.

####

Clint came slinking into their bedroom just as the final notes of  _ Tutti Contenti Saremo Cosi _ were dying away behind the back wall. He leaned in the doorway with a muffled curse, struggling with one sock, his clothing otherwise already tucked under one arm. The moonlight filtering through the sheet over the window painted his back in silver patches.

Phil waited until he’d straightened, moonbeams sliding off his shoulders to puddle over the curves of his ribs. Then he sat up and flipped on the bedside light.

“Ow,” Clint whined, whipping one hand over his eyes. “Aw, Phil, no.”

Phil, whose own eyes were starting to water at the sudden flood of lumens, couldn’t help agreeing. Some things just worked better in his head than in reality. Still. He pulled off his CPAP mask and tossed it away.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked, crossing his arms. 

“Ow. Jesus.” Clint was still rubbing his eyes, and his voice came out muffled. “Yes, approximately. I told you not to wait up.”

“Yes, that was a very informative series of texts you sent, too. I’d have loved telling Jasper that your last known location was  _ out with peeps _ . _ ” _

Clint gave his eyes one last rub, then gave Phil a glare— or tried to. His gaze skittered a little on the way up to Phil’s eyes, likely still adjusting to the light. When he finally managed to meet Phil’s eyes, his own were half-pleading. 

“You didn’t ask for more,” he said. “And I was fine. I was with Tess and Bent and Milo and Cassie and everyone.”

“Hrmph,” Phil sniffed— and then sniffed again. 

Yes, there it was, that smell he remembered from the wet lab. He thought he’d remember it even in nightmares. (You weren’t supposed to be able to smell in dreams, but this particular scent was pungent enough he figured his subconscious would make an exception.)

“By ‘with Bent’ do you mean—”

“He needed to hydrate coprolites. I needed to retrieve those stupid bugs. Win-win.”

“How about shower-shower?”

“It’s late. I’m tired.”

“I know you’re late. You’re also smelly.” 

“Aw, Mr. Moore,” Clint sighed, sitting down at the end of the bed with an exhausted sigh, “you’re cute when you’re grumpy. Look, I spent all night either partying with undergrads— fat lot of good that did me— or hydrating poop. I know I was out later than we thought, but I’ve got to run this damn mission  _ sometimes. _ ”

Phil felt his fingers twitch, his shoulders hitch with the sudden urge to lean over and get his hands on Clint’s slumping shoulders, knead the exhaustion out of them, even if it meant risking a closer acquaintance with the lingering stench of ancient excrement.

No— exchanging shoulder rubs downstairs with clothes on was one thing. He knew he couldn’t trust his traitor body with that kind of temptation now.  _ Especially _ if it was already trying to convince him that Clint didn’t actually stink that badly. He clenched his fists together, hard. But Clint looked so drained, so wary and hurt by Phil’s actions, that the whole speech Phil had spent the last several sleepless hours perfecting, to the muffled soundtrack of  _ le Nozzi di Figaro _ , died on his tongue.

“Did you walk home alone?” he asked, softening his tone while trying to keep his voice pitched loud enough for Clint to hear clearly with his back turned.

Clint’s shoulders quaked, once, in a sad kind of laughter.

“Naw, Milo saw me part of the way here— or I saw him. Does it matter?”

“It might,” Phil sighed, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, “There’s another student missing.”

“I know,” Clint said, turning to look at him. He didn’t look especially distressed, but then he was so tired— “Cassie said so. History guy, right? Her roommate told her; she’s a major. I think it’s why Milo came to the lab with us to hang out. I know  _ I’d _ choose me over a campus cop as an escort.”

“I don’t know; campus cop has a golf cart,” Phil said, trying to twist a smile out of them both. After a blank moment, Clint huffed a laugh. 

“I knew it. All it takes is a fancy vehicle to turn your head. Still, that would’ve made a nice alibi to give Schunk, if I ended up needing one. I assume that’s where this is going?”

Phil shrugged, letting Clint think it was agreement. It was easier than getting them both sidetracked again over his impotent worry as the minutes had ticked over to midnight and past. Heavens knew, he was owed a scare like this, given his own history with punctuality on this op.

“We don’t know if we’re going to need one, or when for, but why give Schunk more ammo?”

“Hrmph,” Clint agreed, and rose to toss his clothes in the hamper that resided on the floor of their closet. “Fair point. Though we don’t know this guy’s connected at all. He’s not an Anthro student, and, well— heavy drinking, cliffs, rivers— Cassie tells me they lose a kid a year that way, on average. They all still think that’s how Ellen went.”

“That’s not how Ellen went,” Phil said, with the surety brought from having seen the purloined ME’s report. “And true, we don’t know. But that won’t stop Schunk, and she’s a complication we don’t need. Plus…” he hesitated.

Plus, his gut instincts were highly refined after two decades as an intelligence agent, and his guts were telling him Hudson’s disappearance smelled a very particular sort of fishy.

“Plus,” Clint nodded, conceding him the point implicitly. He was still staring at the depths of their closet, and he reached up to scratch between his shoulder blades, his fingers lingering on the fuzz of hair at the nape of his neck. Phil pulled the covers up further around his waist and tucked them in. There was a  _ reason _ he tried hard not to spend too much time with Clint in their bedroom when both of them were awake. 

“So, is it just the alibi, or are you afraid I can’t fight off a sudden undergrad attack either?” Clint said it deliberately, as if he was aiming one of his damn bows and letting fly. Phil felt it hit right in his solar plexus.

“I was  _ caught off guard _ ,” he growled. “And I didn’t want to hurt her. And I’m just saying that being out alone at two AM when students are disappearing and we don’t know how isn’t the best idea ever. Yes, you can fight one undergrad, but what if that’s not what— look. Just. Look.”

He fought the urge to get up and grab Clint on one of those strong, ropey biceps, to make him turn around. 

“Look?” Clint asked, turning anyway. The half-confused, half-frustrated frown was back on his face.

“Look,” Phil tried again, weighing his next words carefully. “We don’t have back up. If you’re out of commission or in a jail cell, this op is on the ropes. I just think that an abundance of caution—”

“An abundance of— for fuck’s sake!” Clint bit his lip and glanced at the back wall, before continuing in a lower tone. “Dammit, Phil, I’m the lead on this op; I call that shot.” 

It came out mostly as a hiss. Phil put up his hands.

“I know,” he protested. “I’m not trying to…” 

What… what had he been trying to do, anyway? Phil closed his eyes briefly to rub them. His head throbbed. He certainly hadn’t been trying to fight with Clint, anyway. Not really, not even if the fear in him had been hungry for a response. “Ugh. I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since I was the backup on an op. I… think I just worried.”

“About my ability to make the calls,” Clint said flatly.

“No! Just… about you, I guess. I just wanted you home so I could tell you about Hudson myself. I thought… after how you felt about Ellen, I guess I thought you might…” Phil finally gave up that sentence as a bad cause, and ended on another shrug.

Clint was silent for about half a minute, measured by the beats of Phil’s heart.

“Huh,” he said finally, and came back over to sit on the bed and stare at Phil. “Well, you’re not wrong. I kind of did need-- something. At least three drink’s worth of it.”

“That was before the coprolites?” Phil asked, despite himself. Clint snickered.

“During. Bent has to stiffen his own spine. He pours ‘em weak, though, luckily for me. I was all right on the way home. It wasn’t only me who needed the drinks, though. The whole night it felt like the ghost of Ellen was looming over us. Hit Tess hardest, I think, but I didn’t get much chance to talk to her.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil said, and he did reach out this time, to lay his hand gently on Clint’s shoulder. His skin was cool and smooth, and Phil let himself rub one thumb against his shoulder blade. Just to provide extra comfort.

“I… thanks, Mr. Moore.” Clint’s voice cracked on the name. “I appreciate it. Hey, so… at the risk of sounding like a total hypocrite, I was thinking. Tomorrow’s Saturday, we don’t have to be up and out early or anything. How’d you like to run together?”

“What, you think  _ I _ can’t handle myself if Hudson attacks?” Phil asked, letting amusement leak into his tone to hide his instinct to snap  _ no _ . It was his private time. His away from Clint time. But he was aware he didn’t exactly have the moral high ground.

“I didn’t say that,” Clint said, “But you are the one who was worried about an alibi.”

“Schunk’s not going to buy us trying to alibi each other out.”

“Okay, so we need to not get ambushed. Just. C’mon, Mr. Moore, indulge me.” Clint looked so earnest about it that Phil folded. 

“Okay, tomorrow after breakfast,” he said. “There’s a trail near the sports fields that has exercise stations. I haven’t had a chance to try them.”

“Good call,” Clint said, and sat for a moment longer just watching him. Phil battled down fondness and impatience in succession— he needed Clint to stop looking at him, or else he was going to crack. 

Just as Phil reached the limits of his ability, Clint stood. With a backwards glance, he headed for the bathroom.

“You’re not coming to bed?” Phil asked, aware his own voice was less steady than he needed it to be.

“Some guy I sleep with told me I smell like shit,” Clint said, smiling. “Figured I’d take care of that first. You get to sleep, Phil. I’m here. It’s all good. We’ll pick it up again tomorrow.”

As he disappeared into the hallway, Phil laid himself slowly back in bed. He blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, before rolling over to pick up his discarded CPAP mask and turn off the light. Tomorrow. Everything would seem less muddled then. 

 

####

“Tell me something Phil,” Clint huffed as he pulled up on his two-dozenth sit-up, Phil’s hands tightening on his laces. “Distract me.”

He needed the distraction. Having Phil leaning over his legs, glistening with sweat, his eyes crinkling with approval whenever Clint would strain upwards to meet him, was turning out to be a not-that-subtle form of torture. He was glad he’d gone for his baggier set of shorts and t-shirt. 

“Yeah? What should I tell you?”

“I dunno…” Clint grumbled, not sure it was fair to ask the guy doing the reps to pick the topic. “Uh… how about… what was so funny Thursday night?”

“Something was funny Thursday night?” Phil asked, looking quizzical, and Clint rolled his eyes as well as his spine as he sat up.

“You tell me-- chuckling into your notebook-- didn’t think I noticed-- ow!” An errant branch poked him in the back as he went back down. Phil reached under and pulled it out.

“Oh that? I can’t believe you even remember-- that was just-- it’s nothing.” Either Clint’s vision had started to go red at the edges, or he was blushing.

“Something,” Clint huffed. 

“Not really anything interesting,” Phil protested, before withering in the face of Clint’s glare. His hands shifted again, and Clint could feel his thumbs digging in even through the intervening layers of sneaker.

“I’ll decide,” Clint managed, sitting up and holding it long enough to stare Phil straight in the eyes. His abs protested, but it was worth it to see Phil’s blush go from barely there to full-force. Phil dropped his gaze. 

“It’s really not-- just--” Phil shrugged and gave up with a sigh, and Clint dropped back down to the ground, having clearly won his point. “I was going over notes from Dugan’s diary. The team was in Valjevo, right at the end of the war, and the Commandos were supposed to be cleaning out hidden Hydra strongholds. Apparently higher command had told them explicitly to leave this site alone; it wasn’t worth the risk-- are you sure you’re interested?”

There was a light twist on the question that confused Clint. 

“Fascinated,” he huffed. “Go on.”

Phil shrugged.

“Okay. Well, Carter turned right around to the Commandos and said ‘you heard the man, let’s get moving.’ And off they went-- straight to the base. They took it out, mopped up a lot of fairly bloody experiments, boxed up the dubious science stuff, brought it all back to base, and got a faceful of the Colonel yelling she’d disregarded his orders.”

“Yeah?” Clint asked, watching Phil’s face grow animated with the story, beginning to forget the ache in his abdominals. “What’d she say?”

“Ah: ‘I was doing you a favor, Colonel; I assumed you’d regret having given them in the future, so I simply behaved as if you’d already rescinded them.’”

Clint gave up his sit-up in favor of laughing helplessly, laid out on the ground and shaking, with Phil still crouching over his bent knees. 

“That wasn’t the funny part,” Phil told him, smiling gently.

“What’s the funny part?” Clint asked, and Phil raised an eyebrow and ran his glance down Clint’s body. Taking the hint, Clint started his next sit-up.

“Funny part is, I sat staring at that for two minutes before I realized why it sounded familiar.” His mouth twisted further up, his glance went a little distant. “It was because I’d heard nearly those same damn words come out of Nick Fury’s mouth, when he was talking to the old director.”

“Okay no,” Clint said, stopping this time with his elbows on his knees, his face maybe three inches from Phil’s, too startled to be awkward about the proximity this time. The Peggy Carter story had been interesting enough, but this was  _ fascinating _ . “No, seriously? What’d the Director do? Couldn’t’ve canned him, obviously, or else how’d Fury become Director? No, you’re shitting me, Phil. Fury’s too smart to do that.”

“You’re saying Agent Carter,  _ Director _ Carter, founder of SHIELD, wasn’t smart?” There was blatant teasing in Phil’s voice, and a distinct twinkle in his eyes.

“I-- no I’m not saying that. I-- damnit help me up,” Clint grumbled, because now Phil’s smile, so damn close, was starting to get distracting.

They both got up, brushed off, and rehydrated before setting back off down the trail at a crisp pace.  

“What I found amusing,” Phil said after a little, “is how much all SHIELD Directors are apparently bred alike. You know--” his voice had gone speculative-- “you know, now that I think about it, the parallels don’t end there. When you know Director Fury better you’ll see it, Clint.”

Clint was so distracted by the idea that Phil thought he was going to get to know Director Fury better, that he nearly missed it when Phil started again, clearly caught up in his idea and musing to himself.

“It’s easy to think of it as ambition but at heart… at heart I’m pretty sure Nick’s in it because he’s convinced no one else is capable of doing the job he is. And that, oh my god, that is so much like Peggy Carter it’s eerie. The more I study her, the more the similarities hit me. Of course everyone whitewashes her problems with authority these days. I wonder if they’ll do the same with Nick, after he retires.”

Clint thought back to their briefing, to how careful Nick Fury had been with the parameters of their mission, to keep it small enough that it wouldn’t excite any comment from other quarters about resources being sent after  _ inactive _ agents, scientists,  _ social scientists _ no less. How determined he was to find out what Elena Magnos’d got herself into, even after being told to let it go.

He thought he could maybe see what Phil was talking about. 

“So tell me what the Colonel said to Peggy Carter,” Clint prompted Phil, eager for the rest of the story. He got a head-shake in return.

“You’ve already heard the funny part. It’s not that interesting.”

“Of  _ course _ it’s interesting,” Clint said, “look at you, you’re doing an entire huge-ass paper on this shit.”

“Well,” Phil looked down at his running shoes, “it’s interesting to me, but I--”

“Then it’s interesting to me, too. I keep trying to read over your shoulder at night, when I get tired of trying to distinguish the different slips on pre-Columbian ceramics.”

“You… you do?” Phil stopped in his tracks, turning backwards to look at Clint with wide eyes.

“Shit, yeah. C’mon, this is all, what’d you call it, pertinent information. I work at the agency she started. Plus,” Clint said, carried away on his subject now, “you’re real cute when you get enthusiastic, Mr. Moore.”

“ _ Clint _ ,” Phil said, shaking his head and giving Clint a look that was too damn curious by half, “you don’t have to keep it up out here, there’s no one to see the ac-- oof!”

“Phil!” Clint cried, as Phil stumbled forward, arms windmilling, under the impact of the runner who’d just come round the bend and smacked into him.

For one brief, hallucinatory second, Clint thought that they’d found the second missing student, who was going to start attacking them.

Instead, Dr. Jones peeled herself off Phil’s back and shook her head, as if trying to clear away the chirping birdies circling it.

“Sorry,” Phil told her, while checking himself over and rubbing his rear end. “I’m kind of a disaster on the jogging paths lately.”

“And I should’ve been paying attention,” she told him. “That’s a blind corner, after all. I heard you coming— just didn’t know you were so close. Well, that’s what happens in these hills. Sound carries oddly. Phil, isn’t it? Nothing broken?”

“Not on this side,” Phil told her. 

“Nor mine,” Jones said, as she looked both him and Clint over. Apparently satisfied that neither of them were lying, she gave them a salute. “Well, carry on, both of you. Sorry about battering your husband, Mr. Ford.”

She jogged off. Phil watched her go, shaking his head.

“We’ve got to be more careful about SHIELD topics anywhere but in the home,” he said.

Clint bit back the urge to apologize— Phil’d said “we” for a reason, after all, and he’d been the one talking about the Director. 

“Well you were right about one thing,” he said instead, watching as Phil finished brushing himself off.

“What’s that?” Phil asked, looking up at him from under his eyelashes and accidentally causing Clint’s heart to try and expand right out of his chest.

“It’s definitely too dangerous for you to be out running alone. Good thing you have me looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me?” Phil asked him, sounding outraged and pointing off down the path. “You spotted that danger real well.”

“Not my fault. You were distracting me,” Clint told him. They turned and began running again. As they rounded the corner, Phil shook his head.

“You’re easily distracted if I’m all it takes, Indy,” he said gruffly. He was looking up at the path ahead, not back at Clint, thankfully. Because Clint had no idea what his face was doing, except that his lip hurt from how hard he was biting down on it, trying not to say something about how no one with a pulse wouldn’t be distracted by Phil. Or he’d love to find out what else Phil could do to distract him, or something equally stupid.

After a moment, Phil did look back at him, puzzled.

“You all right?” he asked, because apparently he’d developed an unerring radar for exactly when Clint wasn’t, in fact, all right.

“Yeah I’m fine,” Clint lied through his teeth. 

“If you say so,” Phil said, turning around again and continuing his run. He didn’t seem to be in a mood to banter anymore, and Clint couldn’t say he felt like it, either.

He’d just had a terrible realization: there was no possible way that he was going to be able to fall out of love with Phil Coulson when they went back to SHIELD. If only it had been some one thing Phil did or didn’t do, he could have handled that, just abstained or something. But it wasn’t just one thing. The totality of Phil made him weak in the knees.

He was never going to be able to bask in a close friendship with Phil; all this stupid op had done was consign him to some indeterminate period of pining miserably. Clint closed his eyes and tried not to moan at the thought. There’d better be something  _ seriously _ wrong at Driftless, to make up for this. Like, epically, world-endingly wrong.

Okay, maybe not world-endingly wrong. He’d settle for civilization-threateningly wrong. Clint opened his eyes and found they were fixed directly on Phil’s rear end, which was bouncing lightly as he ran.

No… maybe world-endingly wrong was the right benchmark after all. Fuck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Phil can't be this oblivious forever-- or can he? Clint has some unexpected reactions to events, and they decide to take things to the next level. The next chapter will post ~~sometime the first weekend of February~~ sometime before the 15th of February, due to ongoing health issues (mine, not the characters').
> 
> In addition, here's a tumblr bonus, the [original floorplans](http://kat-har.tumblr.com/post/169449319176/driftless-bonus-the-original-layout-of-clint-and) for Clint and Phil's campus apartment, as inexpertly scrawled by yours truly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Clint makes progress on both their mission and his studies, Phil asks a question and doesn't like the answer. So he panics. And then he handles it. 
> 
> Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I thought this one was gonna beat me, in my weakened state. Thank you for bearing with me during the delays.
> 
> Extra special thanks to LauraKaye, best of betas, on this one. It required some real fine excavating and re-working to get things right and she wouldn't let me stop until I did it.

“Okay, now this was a good decision, Mr. Moore,” Clint said as he poured syrup all over his sausage.

Phil winced and looked away, hoping Clint would assume his discomfort was due to the inundation of a defenseless breakfast meat under a sticky fake maple tide.

If only that were it. 

Phil’d felt it coming on even before he’d been run down by Dr. Jones on the jogging paths that morning. The sense of doom and confusion had already crept so high it had been buzzing in his ear. Maybe that was why he hadn’t heard her coming. 

“Are you saying some of my other decisions haven’t been good?” Phil asked Clint, setting his tone for dangerously mild. When Clint looked up in concern, Phil tucked his fork under Clint’s and liberated a mound of hashbrown. He had it safely behind the borders of his own plate before Clint had finished giving a betrayed yelp.

“I needed those!” Clint told him, pulling his plate back and circling it with a defensive ring of his own arms. 

“You can’t even tell I took any,” Phil argued. And it was true— the mother hashbrown had about a four-inch loft off of Clint’s plate, the rest of which was hidden under a mammoth Denver omelette (well, an omelette that was mammoth in size, not one that contained megatherium) and several fat, greasy, and now syrup-bathed sausages.

Clint grumbled at him a little more, but seemed more focused on his breakfast than on Phil— which had been the reason Phil had turned potato-thief. The twitchiness that had been growing in Phil was all Clint’s fault and the last thing Phil needed was for Clint to guess. If he had to pinpoint the start of it, Phil thought it would have been while he’d been pinning Clint down… pinning Clint’s feet down… while Clint did sit-ups. 

The lust that had coiled in his gut at the sight of Clint straining up towards him was nothing new. The queasy way Phil’s insides had swooped when Clint had asked him about Agent Carter… well, that wasn’t new either, so he’d tried to shake off the feeling of doom that came with it.

Then they’d been jogging and he’d realized mid-lecture that Clint had got him talking about Nick— and he never talked about Nick; it wasn’t fair to Nick to share those thoughts with anyone else— and also that Clint was hanging off every word and looking like he wanted to. And then Phil had thought… he’d thought… he hadn’t thought, really. That was what had him so scared.  

There was nothing rational about the sense of contentment that had come over him, with the warmth and buzz of the morning and the glitter of his companion and the exhilaration of sharing— 

Hence the sense of foreboding. Hence the mid-run collision.

Hence the two of them here, sitting at a chipped Formica counter in a diner in Clemens, watching the ancient fry cook heap an even more ancient griddle with about three pounds worth of grated potato. Because Phil needed to distract Clint very badly at the moment. 

And also he needed to ask him something, and he didn’t want Clint thinking too hard about why. If he did ask, anyway. Phil hadn’t decided yet.

He bought himself a little more time by buttering his pancake, then upending the bowl of fruit onto the top. 

“Your pancake has specks in it,” Clint said, and Phil looked up to find him watching it warily, his fork poised mid-way through what was probably supposed to be a stealth raid.

“Of course it does. It’s buckwheat.”

Clint looked at the pancake, then at Phil.

“That sounds… healthy.”

“It pretends to be, anyway.” Phil shrugged. He’d expected Clint to be distracted by food, that had been the point, but this just seemed silly.

Clint poked at the offending flapjack, frowning more.

“Is that a Coulson thing, or a Mr. Moore thing?” he asked, “Liking healthy hippie pancakes? Because I’ve never seen you do it before.”

“I don’t know, Clint,” Phil said, a little nettled, “it’s a me thing. I like pancakes. I like actual nutrients. This has both. Maybe you just haven’t had breakfast with me much before. Why are you concerned about my pancake?”

Clint sat back, his cheeks gone as pink as the mural on the wall behind him, which was maybe meant to be sunset behind the Driftless lift bridge, only it was covered with so many flowers it was hard to be sure. At any rate, it was pink, and Clint’s cheeks were pink, and he was kind of haloed by the tempera paint sun, and Phil’s breath caught, and his mouth opened.

“What’s being in love like?” he asked.

Clint’s jaw dropped.

“What?” he said faintly, after a moment, then reached up and tapped his hearing aid. Like he couldn’t possibly be hearing Phil correctly, like Phil couldn’t possibly be asking that.

Phil sympathized.

If he’d had anyone else he could ask— anyone— he would have. He couldn’t ask Phyl or Jeffrey, obviously, because why the hell would a happily married man ask something like that? He couldn’t ask Jasper because Jasper wasn’t exactly the world’s expert either even if he would never admit that. And he couldn’t ask Mel and Andrew because they would know exactly why he was asking, and he was terrified of what they’d say.

Which wasn’t to say Clint might not figure it out, too, but Phil couldn’t wait. The morning’s run had scared him badly. He needed an expert opinion, and Clint was the only available expert.

He just hoped Clint never figured out why Phil was asking.

“I said, ‘what’s being in love like,’” Phil repeated, dredging up his most Agent Coulson bland face to fortify himself.

Clint blinked at him again, then looked around the diner, nervously.

“Sure you want to ask that in public, Mr. Moore?” 

Phil did one last scan himself of the crowded place. Half the clientele appeared to be hungover students and the other half was mostly comprised of young families and retirees. All of them appeared to be concentrating on their own substantial breakfasts— except for the table where it looked like a squirt-bottle syrup fight was imminent— and babbling away beneath the benign influence of other amateur murals or old framed restaurant write-ups.

The end of the counter he and Clint were occupying was free except for them, with a good view of anyone approaching in the reflections off the three-tier pie case. Phil turned back to Clint and shrugged.

“No one else to hear, as long as you can.”

Clint regarded him carefully, then turned a little on his stool so he was directly facing Phil. Of course; he was going to need to read lips. Which meant Phil had no room to hide. Oh, hell.

“Can I ask why you’re asking?”

“Sure,” Phil said, then concentrated on cutting into his pancake for a long moment, “sure you can.” He stuffed the pancake in his mouth, to gain time to formulate a convincing, benign answer.

The look on Clint’s face only grew more concerned, so perhaps the delaying tactics were decreasing his appearance of nonchalance. Phil swallowed hard.   
“It’s just…” he sighed, and decided on a flanking maneuver around the truth. “I haven’t had a lot of experience, obviously, you know this. Internally, I mean. I… I have friends who are— well, Melinda and Andrew, and then again Victoria and Isabelle— and I’ve watched them. But it’s hard to figure out an internalized state from external signs.”

“Geez, especially if those are the people you’re watching,” Clint said. Phil let himself laugh— good, they were going the right direction. De-personalizing it a little.

“Exactly. And so I… I don’t know how I… how anyone tells the difference between infatuation and the, uh, and the real thing.” He stuttered to a stop, wondering if Clint could see the elephant he was talking around.

Clint dropped his gaze to his own plate nearly as soon as he was certain Phil was done talking, and spent some time poking around at his eggs, mixing his hash browns in the yolk gravy. With every poke, Phil felt the tension in his shoulders ratchet higher.

“So…” Clint said, not yet looking up, and Phil forgot to breathe. “So… what is… are you… concerned about the cover?” He peeked up at Phil.

Yeah. 

Yeah!

The cover. Of course.

Phil nodded, and watched Clint’s entire body droop in relief, then grow into a wide, teasing smile.

“If it’s the cover you’re worried about, Mr. Moore, don’t. You’re doing real good.”

“Am I?” Phil asked, a little struck at Clint’s certainty.

“Oh sure. I mean, the touches help, and the, ah, physical affection. I’m guessing half our neighbors have seen your hand on my ass. I mean, we— Ford and Moore— clearly like each other. But that race across campus to grab me from the clutches of the Good Captain Schunk? Pretty sure that would convince anyone you were in love. Would have firmed up the cover nicely. I know Cassie’s convinced we’re the romance of the century.”

Which was all well and good except for one small problem. Phil hadn’t been thinking about firming up their cover, or about how Phillip Moore would react to Clint Ford being detained, when he’d taken off across campus. He hadn’t, best he could reconstruct his own scattered thoughts, even been that interested in supporting Agent Barton.

“Is that… why that?” he asked. “Of all things?”

Clint considered this a moment— the entire conversation so far seemed to happen as much in silences as in actual words, and Phil was only really good at those kinds of conversations when they were happening with marks or double agents.

“Care,” Clint said finally. “I’m not… I can’t really tell you how I feel when I’m in love I’m just… in love? Like, it’s more than just liking being with someone, how they look, how they make you feel… they just… become important. As a person, not as a boss or co-worker or whatever.”

Phil sat back a little.

“You want to make them happy,” he said, trying it out.

Clint shook his head.

“I don’t have a great track record making people happy. Yeah, I want to— but I want to make lots of people happy. It’s one reason I was good in the circus. No, if I love someone, it’s more that I want to know what they need, and give it to them. Even if… even if it’s not what makes them happy. Or me.” He frowned down at his sausages, rolling them on his plate. “Or even when I’m not what they need.”

He looked so downcast that Phil nearly reached out to hug him. 

Nearly.

But that would look… it could look… he grabbed his coffee and gulped it down to the dregs, to buy himself time.

“I guess,” Clint said, mostly on a whisper, still looking down, “I guess I feel their happiness like I feel mine. And their pain. We’re doing it together.”

That sounded distinctly unappealing, really, especially given the look on Clint’s face. Of course, this whole idea of love sounded like a disaster in the first place. Phil did not want it.

“I haven’t known a lot of married couples, but I’m pretty sure not all of them feel that way. Some of them don’t even seem to notice each other.”

Clint shrugged.

“Did I ever say I was a marriage expert?” he asked. “Because that would be a goddamn laugh. Anyway, being married doesn’t mean they’re in love. Or even if they are, it doesn’t mean they know how to… how to do love. How to be good at caring and seeing each other. Hell, take, me, for instance. I’m shit at it.”

Phil was fairly convinced that was not true. If Clint had taken such good care of him so far this mission— from dinners to neck rubs to babbling about 084s— he couldn’t imagine Clint not doing the same for someone he loved. 

And imagining Clint in love was the worst idea, he realized. Even worse than all the ideas he’d had so far this morning.

“But not Phillip Moore,” Phil frowned, trying to do a hard retreat. Time to get them back onto firmer ground. “I mean— from what you say he’s doing fine. But, Clint, I— he’s— late home all the time. Forgets to text, gets buried in the archives. If that’s what… what everyone is seeing. Am I….”

Am I doing it right? Am I not in… in danger after all? None of those seemed like good ways to end the sentence, so Phil stopped trying.

“Bullshit,” Clint said, waving the objection away. “They see Phillip Moore setting five alarms on his phone because he knows he’s bad about that shit. They seem him getting me… getting his husband a beer before his husband even knows he needs one. They see him riding to the rescue in a golf cart. You’re good. You’re fine. Stop worrying about it, Phil. Anyone who sees you would see a man in love.”

He seemed so determined that Phil didn’t have the heart to raise an objection.

Especially since the warning bells in his mind had escalated to civil defense sirens.

“Glad to know it’s working then,” he managed, even though the words were bitter on his tongue. 

“Hell yeah it is,” Clint said, dredging up a smile from somewhere. “Of course it is, you’re good at pretty much everything, Coul— Mr. Moore.”

Now that, Phil thought as he turned back to his breakfast, was definitely not true. After all, by Clint’s own definition, Phil had turned out to be disastrously bad at trying not to be in love with Clint Barton.

####

Cassie was waiting for them on their front stoop when they got home, her arms crossed over her knees, looking morose. Clint responded to Phil’s what’s this glance with a shrug to indicate he didn’t know either, then loped forward.

“Hey Cass,” he said, keeping his voice light even though his heart was sinking. “What’s up?”

In the background, his mind was racing: was there another missing student? Another dead student? Another zombie attack— Jones! Jones had been all alone on the paths! Had Schunk been interrogating Cassie? 

“I think I’m gonna flunk the lab test,” Cassie sighed, looking up but not meeting his eyes.

“Oh,” Clint replied, clamping down on the is that all that wanted to escape. That was more than enough, for an actual student. “Um.”

“Why don’t you come in, Cassie,” Phil said smoothly, coming up next to Clint and offering her a hand, “where there’s air conditioning— kind of, anyway— and stuff to drink.”

She did, slouching in after them and collapsing over the breakfast bar as Phil went to get her a drink. Clint wandered over and leaned across from her on the counter, resting his chin on his hands and trying to get a good angle on her face. 

“Why do you think you’re gonna flunk?” he asked her.

“’Cause I dontnowhmdoingandIanasiloorelpcauseImaoopitweakurlan I suck,” she said into her arms.

Clint looked at Phil desperately.

“Well,” Phil said, setting a glass of water in front of her, “I don’t know you that well, but I’m fairly sure you don’t suck, and the evidence suggests you’re not a stupid weak girl, either. I mean, I watched you personally put away most of a six pack and then lift a bench with two MFA students on it at the last potluck. I admit that might be less than smart without a back brace, but it’s not weak.”

Cassie’s shoulders shook, and from the half-smile that played across Phil’s face, Clint guessed she’d snorted.

“Yeah fine,” she said, finally lifting her face enough that Clint could see her lips, “I lift heavy. But I can’t understand potsherd indexing and I’m supposed to just ask Milo, apparently, there’s nothing written on it. He’s at the lab today but I can’t… I can’t get my legs to take me there. Not alone. I— When I. Ugh.”

Clint sat there staring at her in dismay. He was her friend, goddammit, or supposed to be. He should be doing something about this, even if his brainwas still trying to replay that weird conversation he and Phil had at the diner. The one where for a moment he thought Phil had guessed that he was— anyway. He had not been prepared for the sight of a distraught undergrad on his front steps.

But Clint was great at improvising, so he could totally handle this. Right? 

Right.

He reached out and, after a moment’s hesitation, patted her arm.

“Cass—” he said, then stopped when his brain refused to supply him with further words.

“Is it because of Ellen Gideon?” Phil asked gently, coming around to perch on one of the breakfast stools. 

Cassie looked over at him with big eyes.

“Because that would be natural,” Phil continued. “You knew her, she’s gone, no one knows what happened— and I presume you associate the archeology lab strongly with her. And it’s very different when it’s empty.”

God, Clint thought, did he love that man.

The realized what he’d thought, and it set off a minor panic response in his brain, so he  _ still _ wasn’t able to find any words for Cassie when she started off again, nodding her head thoughtfully and looking into the middle distance in a way that suggested she was trying to figure out her own brain.

“That— yeah that’s mostly it, I guess. We weren’t friends or anything but we hung out a lot. I mean, same major, same test pits, nearly the same class schedule. I don’t know if I liked Ellen, but I didn’t _ not _ like her. Ugh, that sounds bad. I mean she was a really nice girl, we just didn’t… have a lot in common. And she would get frustrated with me so quick on the dig, ‘cause I didn’t work fast enough or neat enough for her? I guess? She always snapped at me when the professors would come by and check, like I was making us both look bad. But she wasn’t mean, she just wanted to do her best. And. I’m sad she’s dead, but now I’m scared because first Dr. Magnos, then Ellen, and now Hudson and I think maybe the archaeology department is… is  _ cursed _ . _ ” _

_ “ _ Uh,” Clint said, finding his voice for the first time, “I thought Hudson was a history major? You didn’t say anything at the party?”

“That’s because Tess kicked me under the table. Told me not to spook everyone. But yeah, Hudson was in Who Owns the Past with me and Ellen— that’s one of Doc Santander’s electives. You should take it in the fall, it’s great. Anyway, Hudson was in that, and then Quent says he saw him coming out of storage with Milo the day that you and me met.”

Clint could feel Phil’s eyes on him, and when he nodded it was as much to Phil as to Cassie.

“So basically, you’re afraid to go into the lab alone in case you disappear too?”

Cassie started to roll her eyes, then paused.

“It sounds so stupid,” she sighed. “Especially when Milo’s there.”

It sounded the exact opposite of stupid, to Clint. It sounded like Cassie had really good instincts, and he told her so. Her shoulders drooped.

“You think so? ‘Cause when I say it out loud it sounds like an Agatha Christie novel. Cursed artifact brought home from dig or whatever. Only of course it’s always a fake out.”

“Yeah, but they’re still murder mysteries,” Clint said. “And whatever, probably the lab’s not cursed and there’s no mysterious artifact, but you’re still not gonna be able to study in there looking over your shoulder every minute. And Milo’s not exactly a comforting presence— he seems like the kind of guy who’d be cursed or else working for the mysterious villain. So tell you what, I’ll go with you.”

Cassie looked between him and Phil, who’d fixed a nice benign affable look on his face. 

“Oh, I don’t want to take you away from—”

“Take him away,” Phil told her, maybe just a hair too quickly for nonchalance. “I’ve got a chapter to pound out, and a really distracting husband. I could use the quiet time.”

And Clint could use the opportunity both to study, and to poke around the lab— especially in light of Cassie’s information. And he could even say he was doing it to put her mind at rest or something. Because he wasn’t so very sure that her cursed artifact was  _ entirely _ made up.

“If you’re sure…” Cassie’s eyes were so big and limpid with relief that Clint thought for a minute she’d turned into a cartoon rabbit.

“Sure I’m sure,” he said, “let me grab my bag and kiss my husband goodbye.” 

He did so, leaning over to peck Phil on the cheek— he didn’t feel capable of more at the moment, too afraid Phil would suck his feelings out through his lips or something.

“See you for dinner, Mr. Moore,” he murmured against Phil’s stubble. Phil turned, pulling back as he did and smiling. It didn’t, Clint saw, reach his eyes. Probably he was as busy trying to figure out how the Hudson angle fit as Clint was. Or else he was half in dissertation-land already.

“See you then, Indy,” Phil said back. “Stay safe.”

Clint saluted, then he and Cassie made their way out. By halfway across campus, Cassie was sufficiently recovered to hum the  _ Indiana Jones _ theme song at Clint. So at least one of them was feeling better.

Clint felt like his heart had sunk into his stomach, and couldn’t figure out exactly why. 

####

After Clint left, Phil stood alone in their kitchen and cursed, his hand still on his cheek where Clint had kissed him goodbye. 

He’d held it together all right until he’d seen Clint and Cassie turn down the sidewalk away from their house, but then the panic he’d felt creeping up ever since their conversation at the diner had swamped him. It came boiling up from his gut with bile, it clamped down on the back of his neck like a vice, and all his limbs went wobbly with it.

“No,” he to himself, turning in a slow circle and threading his fingers through his hair. “No, no, no, no, no.”

When he stopped, it was in front of the sink, and he briefly contemplated leaning over it to vomit.

His stomach gave a heave.

“Ugh,” he sighed, stumbling backwards until he could hit the counter. “Maybe it’s just the flu.”

He slapped his palm against his forehead; annoyingly cool.

No, you were supposed to do the back of the hand— he flipped to his knuckles.

Still nothing.

He had to face it, after all.

Phil squeezed his eyes shut and let his knees go at last, sinking slowly to the floor and putting his head between his knees.

“I’m in love,” he said to the linoleum. “God fuck my fucking life, I’m in love.”

The shadows between his knees and the position helped him calm down, eventually, his breath going back to normal after a while and his heart slowing. As his head stopped pounding, the ridiculousness of the situation got to him. Here he was, a highly-trained and lethal intelligence agent, at the top of his craft, collapsed on the kitchen floor like a seventeen year old, just because he’d finally fallen in love at forty-ish.

“Geez, Coulson, dramatic much?” he asked his shoelaces.

He sat back against the cabinet doors and let his head thump against the drawer.

“It’s only love, it’s not a disaster,” he told the ceiling fan. “People fall in love all the time. They all seem to survive it.”

People also fell out of love all the time, and hurt the people they loved all the time, and got divorced, and got widowed. All of which seemed to hurt a  _ lot _ , and none of which happened to people who never fell in love to begin with. Which was exactly why Phil had tried so hard  _ not  _ to fall in love with Clint in the first place. Why risk hurting them both?

“To be fair, I was probably halfway to in love with him when we got here, anyway,” he sighed. “Maybe that’s why living together didn’t make me stop liking him— I was already in way too deep.”

Except he’d been halfway to in love with Melinda, too, and that hadn’t lasted past the second week on undercover with her. And that time, he’d gone in hoping that their mission would convert _ halfway in love _ to  _ completely gone on each other. _ He’d expected the experience to be amazing. They worked so well together, it should have translated seamlessly. Hell, he’d been excited.  _ Anything could happen _ , he’d thought.  _ It’ll be like a test flight. _

It had been, all right— one that blew up on the landing pad. It was hard to consider someone a romantic interest when they kept elbowing you awake at night or kicking you in the shins.  Or, he supposed, when your bedmate's horrible snoring made it impossible for you to sleep;  when Phil had finally gotten his CPAP a year ago, after nearly a decade of denial and bedmates who left the minute he started snoring, he’d sent Melinda a picture of it with an apology in the email header. The kicks had been justified— but they’d still hurt. It was hard to fall in love with someone who so obviously was falling out of love with you. 

Of course, Clint didn’t seem to be falling out of love with Phil— because he’d never been in love with Phil, not even halfway. 

If he sometimes seemed like he might be in love, well— that was just the mission, as Clint himself had said at breakfast. And beyond that, Clint himself had admitted there were lots of people he liked to make happy. Clearly  _ lots of people _ included Phil (and the greater portion of Driftless, at this point). Clint’s generosity was humbling— but also frightening. Phil had tried, oh how he’d tried, to piss Clint off, to trample on his boundaries. But Clint just let himself be trampled on— it took  _ so much _ to push Clint over the edge that when Phil finally accomplished it, it just made him feel like a jerk. 

That was why Clint was more dangerous to Phil’s heart than Melinda had been— and why Phil was so likely to hurt him.

For Melinda, “making lots of people happy” probably ranked on her personal goals scale at about the same level as “perform street theater—” it just wasn’t a relevant metric. When someone tried to cross her boundaries, she pushed them hard. It made it easy to have confidence in her on missions, and it made friendship with her easy, since he always knew where he stood. As much as it had hurt during their fake marriage, it meant Phil hadn’t had to worry about hurting her unintentionally ever since. Clint didn’t watch his own boundaries— which meant Phil had to watch them for him. 

That was not Phil’s strong suit. He had a tendency to… to slop over people when he was comfortable. 

Maybe, in some alternate universe, there was a Phil that was better at keeping boundaries up once he let his guard down. But in this universe, he spent so much time keeping them high at work— being the perfect unflappable agent, never reacting injudiciously, never imposing on anyone— that when he actually did finally let go, he let everything go. His brain and his belongings both scattered wide. 

While he knew he had grated on Melinda (and Jasper, who’d experienced a little of it on extended missions), it was also tough being called on the carpet whenever he left an errant gym shoe on it. It wasn’t like he’d meant to do it, it was just the way he was, and no matter what stupid self-help books he read or organizational methods he tried or elaborate shelves he put up, he couldn’t stop doing it. After a week or a month of things being mostly under control, he’d get comfortable and revert to baseline. And suddenly, there they’d be, his shoes and his mind, scattered all over.

Frankly, he’d gotten used to it after all this time living with himself, and he didn’t particularly want to keep trying to change it— but that didn’t mean he didn’t know it was a failing. He knew. He knew very well, and he didn’t really need the reminder, thanks. 

So it was better just not to share his carpet in the first place with anyone who could trip over his shoes. That had worked well for over a decade.

Phil turned and got up off the floor, using the breakfast bar for leverage. It brought their dingy little golden living room into view, the cinder block and pine board bookshelves he and Clint had built, the futon they shared every night, the record player Clint had taken over. He had a brief flash memory of Clint, collapsing on the floor in relief as Phil walked in the door, and his heart seized up.

“I could hurt him so badly,” Phil whispered, somewhat aghast. Far worse than he’d hurt Melinda.

Clint, whose own tendency was to let people he loved take the lead— not that he loved Phil, thank god. If Clint tended to fall in love quickly, Phil should be mostly out of danger already. Unless Clint was falling in love without knowing he was falling in love— he’d said he did that, too. After all, he hadn’t seen the domestic side of Phil before, had he? It presented a new moment of danger.

“Bullshit,” Phil said to himself, “I am  _ not _ that lovable.” 

And really, what had Phil himself done except trample all over Clint with his gym shoes and his coming home late and his badly-timed cupcakes and his babble about Peggy Carter?

His babble about Peggy Carter that Clint had just told him he liked.

“Crap. Crap, crap.” The panic was starting to well up again. He couldn’t let Clint like him; he couldn’t open Clint up to the option of getting his heart broken, because that was what Phil would inevitably do to him. If it wasn’t shoes or boundaries it would be… it would be….

“Ugh; maybe you’ve got the right idea, after all. Stupid to try and have a relationship and be a secret agent at the same time,” Clint had said, that night in the tree. Clint, who’d already been hurt more than once trying to do just that.

“I’m not that lovable,” Phil reiterated, like a mantra. “And he doesn’t want to fall in love again. He said so.” Even if Phil was appealing, Clint would be fighting it. Phil’s own actions would have helped. Of course Clint wasn’t going to fall in love with him. 

Phil considered, tapping on the counter idly.

One more big push. Just in case. Just to make absolutely sure that any tendrils of love in Clint got killed off before they could take root.

Back to Plan A: make Barton mad at him.

Ideally without compromising their ability to work as a team or seeming like a disinterested husband.

“Shit,” Phil told the crumbs on the counter. “How do I do that?”

He stared blankly around the apartment, looking for inspiration. 

When he hit the trash can, something twitched in the back of his brain.

Cupcake. That horrible cupcake. No… not quite.

Cupcake, dinner, kale— burnt kale— Phil had barely even tried to make a vegetable after that night, he’d been so mortified. And it wasn’t like Clint minded, he got most of his vitamins from supplements anyway, or so he said, even though everyone knew your body didn’t absorb most of….

No.

_ Yes _ .

Phil froze, in the midst of a flashback over a decade old. Melinda standing up from the table, pointing to the dinner he’d made her— the special nutrient-rich high-protein low-carb dinner, meant to be a last-ditch attempt to show her he was paying attention after all— and hissing at him.  _ Do you think I can’t take care of myself, Phil? When did I ever give you the impression I need you to manage my life? I already have one mother, I don’t need another.  _

She’d choked on that last part, like she was actually holding back tears. Like Phil had betrayed her. Which, in a way, he had. Stupid young idiot Phil, who’d sat there sitting at the other end of the table, honestly confused, who had just been trying to help and hadn’t realized he’d basically been implying she couldn’t take care of herself. 

She’d been coldly polite to him for the rest of the mission, when they weren’t in public, then hadn’t spoken to him for most of those six months post-mission before she started dating Andrew. They had been some of the worst six months in his life, topped only by the months after the deaths of his parents. She’d been his best friend, after all. That had always been more important than the physical attraction.

Phil had panicked; now that years had passed since the event, he could admit that to himself. He’d tried to reason with her, to convince her she shouldn’t be mad at him. That had gotten Phil sent off on a mission to Kazakhstan by Nick Fury ( _ before you get yourself killed, Coulson, and have no one to blame but yourself _ ). Phil had gotten the hint, then— and started emailing Melinda abject apologies instead. 

In retrospect, Phil probably had Andrew to thank for saving his friendship with Melinda. He thought he recognized Andrew’s influence in the email she finally sent in response to one of Phil’s pleas. It had been very short:  _ I wanted to be your partner, Phil, not your project. Can you do that? _

Phil was proud of only one thing in the whole debacle: that he had, that time, managed to do what she asked.

And now, he was contemplating inflicting the same passive-aggressive superfoods on Clint as he had on Melinda— and doing it deliberately. It would work— and it wouldn’t look like Phil was being disinterested, it would be the exact opposite. Like the cupcake all over again, just with added B vitamins and grit. 

Phil just had to weaponize his own tendency to try too hard. Clint would never fall in love with him, he’d be glad to escape Phil’s world of errant shoes and overeager kale.  He'd never fall in love with Phil— not even halfway— and so he'd never fall out of love with him . He’d be annoyed with Phil for a while yes, but not hurt enough to cut Phil out completely. Not as hurt as he would be if Phil broke his heart.

They would probably be awkward around each other for a while, but they could still work together. Maybe even be friends. After all, Phil and Melinda’s relationship was so much stronger now than it had been before their doomed mission, so much better— they’d never have lasted that long as a couple. Things would be even better with Clint, because Clint would set his boundaries now, early, before he could get invested in a version of Phil that Phil couldn’t hope to live up to.

As long as Phil could grit his teeth and bear the guilt of what he was about to do, how he was about to hurt Clint, he could see them both safe. Just a little pain now, to spare a lot later.

The cupcake flashed in front of his eyes again, Clint gagging, leaning over the trash can, sickened. Clint yelling at him, hands shaking, reminding Phil what a useless gesture that had been. 

It was going to take a lot of gritting. But he could endure it. He  _ would _ endure it. For Clint— to keep Clint— it was worth it.

Phil swallowed hard, and went to get his keys. 

It was time for a trip to the Clemens Great River Cooperative and Wellness Center.

####

After the walk across campus, during which Cassie chattered on about how spooky she found the storage room— the dim corners, the rattling shelves, the eyeless helmets staring at you from upper shelves— Clint found the actual entry into the anthropology lab anticlimactic. The lights were all on and buzzing, the tables were cluttered with artifacts, and the Jayhawks were playing from a laptop in the corner. A broom leaned against the counter, like they’d interrupted someone in the middle of a belated spring cleaning.

Clint scanned the tables. Potsherds littered the one on the left, on top of a dingy sheet. The one on the right seemed to be dedicated to fragments of tablets and stelae, presumably from the Guatemala dig. None of them gave off even faintest whiff of menace— not even the stela with the goat-headed bas relief. Now that Clint was surprised to see out of storage— it wasn’t exactly easy to move. It had been propped up next to the table, presumably since no one wanted to lift it high enough to get it on top.

Cassie wandered over to it.

“Oh,” she breathed, “I don’t remember  _ that _ . _ ” _

Clint glanced over at it, and tried to keep his voice light.

“Really? I’d have thought something like that would be a big deal.”

“Oh yeah, for sure” Cassie agreed. “ Jeez— I wonder if this came from Temple B? Maybe that’s why they kicked everyone off that site.”

“Who kicked everyone off?” Clint asked, wondering if that was it, if the Guatemalan government had warned them off and Burgoyne and the rest had been smuggling antiquities after all.

“Doc Burgoyne and Doc Santander. They just tossed everyone out mid-afternoon. The professors all worked there the next day, with Tess and Milo and all. Doc Magnos and Doc Jones went half crazy trying to supervise all the rest of the dig sites at once. Eventually they let us back in, but it was all potsherds and scraps by then. We never found out what the big deal wa— wow. Would you look at that?”

She broke off to reach out and draw her finger down the loop-and-stick carvings along the edge of the stela. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Cassie jumped upright, whipping her hands behind her back.

Clint spun, putting himself between her and the intruder and bringing his hands up, fists balled.

It was only Milo.

He’d come from the hall that led to the storage room and was standing In the doorway staring at them both.

Clint dropped his hands with a sigh.

“Sorry,” Cassie said, peeking out from behind him. “I was just looking.”

Milo’s face contorted for a moment, like she’d said “I was just pouring Coke on it and carving my initials with a fire axe” instead.

“You need gloves,” he snapped. “You know that, Cassandra. Why are you here?”

Clint wondered if he’d dropped his guard too early; Milo sounded more pissed than he had since Tess had thrown the atlatl that first day he’d met them.

“We wanted to get some work in before the lab test,” Clint told him, using his best Placating the Clueless Guard tone, the one he’d learned from Jasper Sitwell. “Tess said there’s a match section where we’re supposed to sort the potsherds from the test pits. We wanted to brush up— some of the yellow ware was awfully hard to tell apart.”

Milo’s face cleared.

“Ah. That section, yes, of course. Tesla was quite right.”

There was a pause after that, where he stood bouncing on his heels staring at them both with a bland look on his face, and Cassie’s breath came hot on Clint’s shoulderblades.

“Is it a good time?” Cassie asked after the silence became strained. “To take a look at the samples, I mean?” 

Milo pursed his lips and squinted at her, cocking his head to one side. Then, abruptly, he turned to stare at Clint.

“Yes,” he said finally, still watching Clint. “Yes, it’s fine. Come in and get set up. I’ll answer any questions you have in a minute. I just need to go—”

He went.

Clint and Cassie exchanged looks.

“Is that what Milo’s like with a hangover?” 

“Not normally,” Cassie murmured, still staring into the now-empty doorway. She looked a minute longer, then shook herself and went to sling her backpack on a lab stool next to the potsherd table. She hoisted herself onto another stool and pulled out her lab notebook. “But we need him back— I really have no idea what we’re supposed to be doing. Matching pots to pits, or matching shards together.”

“Yeah me either,” Clint said, and went to lean over the table with her and poke at bits of red ware with black designs, stamped yellow ware, and the fine flakes of polychrome ware. He started to push a few bits together.

Milo shuffled back into the lab just as Clint was hunting for the tail of a stylized jaguar. He blinked at them both, looking for all the world like a myopic turtle on morphine, then came over to lean on the table and bury his head in his hands.

“Ugh,” he said.

“Um, Milo,” Clint asked after a solid thirty seconds had passed and Milo hadn’t moved, “you okay?”

“Ugh,” Milo said.

Cassie sniggered under her breath. Clint looked over to find that she’d started flipping over potsherds to look at the index numbers written on over strips of white on the back of each. She was scribbling notes and looking happier, so he figured she’d found what she wanted. Her story about Temple B still echoed in his brain.

If there had ever been an 084 unearthed in Guatemala, he’d bet good money it had been unearthed in Temple B.

“Hey Milo,” he said, leaning over and poking him on his check-shirted shoulder, “can you get us into the inventory database? Cass was looking for the potsherd typology index for the different test sites?”

“Ugh,” Milo said, but he straightened up and shuffled over to the computer.

“Paper inventory is fine,” Clint called after him, belatedly realizing that Milo might just print out the index rather than allowing him to poke at the computer itself. 

“Locked,” Milo said, waving vaguely at a nearby cabinet that presumably held the enormous inventory binders. “No key. I’ll print it.”

Well, Clint thought, that had been a good idea for all of two minutes. He turned back to check out Cassie’s work while Milo applied himself to the keyboard, poking out his password one finger at a time.

But Clint wasn’t Hawkeye for nothing. He still noticed, out of the corner of his eye, when Milo stuck something that looked like a security dongle into the ancient CPU. Similarly, he noticed that Milo was navigating, one keystroke at a time, through at least three layers of passwords. The lab students used the database all the time; Clint had never seen it encrypted.

Unless— unless the students only had limited access to the database. If it was, then even if Clint got alone time with it during lab, he probably wouldn’t find the mysterious artifacts of Temple B. That was probably missing behind a security protocol the likes of which Clint had last seen at SHIELD medium security installations.

He frowned, and put it out of his mind for the moment. Cassie was already knuckle-deep in her work, and he needed to get her to explain if he wanted to have a chance at passing the test himself on Monday. For now, he needed to concentrate on potsherds, and bring the rest home to Phil to help him understand.

He pulled out his notebook, picked up a bit of red ware, and got busy.

 

####

Phil froze when he heard the key turn in the lock, momentarily uncertain.

“Come on, Coulson,” he muttered, “pull it together. You know this is for the best.” 

He had one moment to take a deep, grounding breath before the door opened. Clint came through looking worn and pensive, and as he dropped his backpack he heaved a sigh so forlorn that Phil nearly repented of his plan.

_ This is for the best.  _ Phil just had to be strong, for Clint’s sake, and see this through. No matter how edible Clint’s biceps looked in the buttery afternoon sun, or how much Phil wanted to gather him up and nuzzle the discontent off his face.

Phil took a deep, sustaining breath, and turned to set the last dish on the table. Clint looked up as he did, and his eyes widened. Phil wasn’t sure if it was just surprise, or if there was a hint of trepidation there— if Clint somehow intuited what was coming.

Or maybe he just had that good a sense of smell.

“Hi,” Phil said, waving at him with a oven-mitted hand. 

“Phil,” Clint said, staring at the oven mitt like he’d never seen one before, “what the heck is this?”

“Dinner,” Phil replied, clasping both his still-mitted hands together in front of himself and trying to appear innocent.

“Yeah, but—” he glanced over at the big windows, where the curtains hung conspicuously open, and his eyes went big as a fox the moment the trap snaps shut. Phil tried not to feel too awful. Clint’s gaze swung back to the table. “Are… those candles?”

“Too much?” Phil asked, biting his lip and letting his own glance dart to the curtains. “I figured you could use a little cheering up this afternoon… Indy.”

He used the name deliberately, echoing Clint’s own tendency to call him “Mr. Moore” to reinforce the role-play aspect of their more intimate interactions. He felt awful doing it, because this wasn’t really that, but Phil needed Clint to play along, to walk into the trap willingly. 

Clint swallowed, and stepped forward.

“And wine, too, huh?” he asked, his voice a little high. “Wow, Mr. Moore.” 

Phil didn’t deserve that level of trust, and he hated that he was about to prove it.

“Have a seat,” he said, waving at the table with one mitt. He watched Clint move to the table, and disposed of the mitts so that he wouldn’t be tempted to draw out one of the battered, mismatched chairs for Clint. There was such a thing as overplaying one’s hand, after all.

Phil waited until Clint was seated and had unfolded his paper napkin, placing it precariously over his thigh before moving.

“Should I close the curtains?” he asked, and Clint nodded, looking relieved.

Phil drew them closed with quick twitches, and watched Clint’s shoulders slump, lulled into a false sense of security. 

“No seriously,” Clint asked as Phil came back, “what is all this. It was my night to cook.”

Phil shrugged, judging his tone carefully, please to find that he could still manage nonchalant.

“Really just dinner. I felt like trying something different.”

“Different.” 

Clint looked down at his plate, then at the dishes on the table. Cautiously, he picked the serving spoon out of the nearest one and used it to poke at the contents of the bowl.

“That’s really different, all right. What, um, what is it?”

“Kale,” Phil replied, infusing it with all the heartiness he could muster. “With tahini. I figured that was better than trying to roast it again. It’s a Mark Bittman recipe. I looked it up.” 

He sat down himself, then leaned over to serve a healthy portion to Clint, without bothering to ask.

“Okay,” Clint said, leaning away from his arms as they fiddled with the plate. “And that’s… salmon?”

“Yep,” Phil agreed, serving that as well. 

“Got tired of chicken, did you?” Clint asked lightly, and picked up the third serving spoon before Phil could get to it.

“Salmon has lots of omega-3s,” Phil said, retreating to his own plate and holding it out for Clint to serve him. To keep himself from paying attention to what Clint was putting on his plate, he kept talking. “It’s got lots of B vitamins too. And selenium.”

“Selenium.” Clint sounded dubious— he looked dubious, too, but since he was actually paying attention to what he was putting on Phil’s plate, that was only natural. Phil watched him until he had served himself one… two… three heaping spoonfuls of the dish, then sat staring at the mound of puffy tan granules on his plate. “What’s… should I know what this is?” 

“Quinoa,” Phil said, in lieu of congratulating him for having gotten through so much of his life without having to face the stuff. “It’s an ancient grain.”

“And I assume this has lots of selenium too?” Clint asked, poking a fork at it.

“Magnesium,” Phil corrected him. “And more B vitamins and omega-3s. Oh, and folates. It’s a superfood.”

Clint looked from Phil to his fork, then back. For a moment, Phil thought that might be it, Clint might break. Melinda had. But Clint, apparently, was made of sterner stuff— or else a glutton for punishment. He visibly braced himself, then lifted his fork to his mouth.

Phil held his breath.

Clint froze with the fork in his mouth.

He was so close.  _ So _ close. Phil could almost see the tremble. One more little twist should push him right over the edge. Phil licked his lips, watching Clint’s eyes flicker to them at the movement. He leaned in.

“I figured it was really time we started eating better,” Phil said, trying to look as earnest as possible. “We’re not at SHIELD anymore, and our activity’s curtailed. It’s not so bad for me, but I know you’re used to a diet designed for a field specialist. It can be so easy to, well, let your diet get… out of balance. Under the circumstances.” 

“’Get out of balance,’” Clint quoted back at him, from around the fork still stuck in his mouth.

Phil shrugged, and applied himself to putting together a forkful of quinoa, kale, and salmon, while looking as innocent as possible.

“Real easy,” he said, and ate.

Ugh.

He’d forgotten just how much he hated quinoa. Triple-rinsing and bold dressings be damned, it was still bitter as hell. He blamed the lingering saponins, even though there was a possibility the bitterness was all in his head, or rather on his tongue, distaste at his own behavior. 

He hadn’t realized it would hurt him like this, watching Clint try to bear with all Phil’s overbearingness. It hadn’t taken this long with Melinda; he hadn’t even realized what he was doing before she was done. He’d been trying to help, when he’d done it to Melinda, she’d even said she was worried about maintaining a healthy diet. And she’d eyed Phil’s macaroni and cheese when she’d said so. Young Phil hadn’t expected to be left standing in the middle of a circle of scorched earth and barley-quinoa bake. (Young Phil really should have— the bake itself was a crime against nature.)

Older Phil braced for impact, figuring he’d stuck the knife in deep enough that even Clint would revolt. Would throw the gesture— and maybe even the plate— back in Phil’s face.

Hell, it was what he had planned, he shouldn’t be nearly this torn up about it actually happening.

Clint was still staring at him, fork half hanging out of his mouth. After a long moment, he pulled the fork out and swallowed hard.

“I’m…” Clint paused, cocked his head, and started again. “I didn’t know you…” one more stop. 

Phil could feel himself turning blue, his lungs beginning to twitch. 

Shit, he needed to breathe.

Clint was still staring at his plate, like he could read the future in the pink flakes of salmon and the dill garnish. Was he trying to decide if Phil thought he couldn’t take care of himself? Or didn’t care about taking care of himself? 

The silence was becoming unbearable; Phil needed a reaction. He needed anger, or bewilderment, or something. He needed to be  _ done _ with this already— it hurt too much, watching Clint spin the possibilities in his head.

That was when it finally hit Phil.

He  _ had _ miscalculated— again. This wasn’t Melinda at all,  _ this was Clint _ . And Clint’s sense of self-worth was sometimes fragile. He probably  _ did _ think Phil thought he couldn’t take care of himself, but far worse, he probably was also wondering if Phil wasn’t  _ right _ . Oh, god, what if the damned idiot was in the middle of internalizing it? 

No. That was. No.

There wasn’t going to be less fallout than there had been with Melinda, not by a long shot— it just was all going to fall on  _ Clint _ this time. Because _ that was what Clint did, and Phil  _ knew _ that. _

Phil nearly cursed out loud, at himself, at his stupid brainless plans, at the way he’d let his panic take control of him, at the nasty mass of quinoa on his plate. Every time he tried to push Clint away, it just ended in disaster, why hadn’t he learned better?

He drowned his sudden fear in a long swig of water, hoping to clear his mouth in time to say something,  _ anything _ , to take it all back.

“Phil—” Clint started.

“Obviously you’re a grown man,” Phil said over the top of him, then cringed inwardly. “I mean, obviously you’re capable and… and I know you take your work seriously. I know you take your, um, your body seriously. I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t, that you’re not. Arg.” He stopped to sigh. “What I’m trying to say is I’m sure you would’ve had kale before now, if you wanted it, I just—”

Oh god, now he was giving Clint’s probable lecture  _ for _ him, which was probably only going to make Clint more convinced Phil thought he couldn’t take care of himself. What a debacle.

“Phil,” Clint stopped him, his voice a little thick. Phil forced himself to meet Clint’s eyes. His face was contorted, lips twitching, like his emotions were conflicted, fighting for dominance of his face. None of those emotions, curiously, looked like either the anger or the hurt Phil had expected.

“Phil,” Clint said again, less shaky now, “thank you.”

_ Thank you _ ?

He couldn’t have heard that right. 

“What?” he managed, squinting suspiciously at Clint. (Well, as suspiciously as it was possible to squint, with his mouth hanging open.)

Clint shrugged, and his gaze skittered away, towards his plate.

“You know everything I cook is from this one pamphlet the nutritionist gave me, right? Well, maybe not just  _ one _ pamphlet, they’ve got one on protein and one on vitamins, and different print-outs for muscle building and for— anyway. They gave them to me, so I figured if I stuck with those they couldn’t complain. I only liked, like, three things from each one, but it’s not like I really have time to go find other stuff that will work, and where would I even look?”

Immediately, Phil’s traitor brain reeled off four different cookbooks and three websites, and he forced it to shut down. That was not at all the point. Clint was still going, playing with his fork nervously and looking anywhere but at Phil.

“And yeah, I know, I don’t eat any vegetables. It’s not like I don’t want to, it’s that they just tell you to steam everything and I can’t. I tried, I just… I can’t. It’s like eating half-mushed baby food. Reminds me of when I had my jaw broken and reset and so I just… do what I can and take vitamins. And every time I visit the nutritionist they just roll their eyes and tell me I should eat more and I say I’ll try and they just leave it.”

He wound down at last, and glanced up at Phil through his lashes. Phil floundered, trying to think of some reaction and completely at sea.

“Oh?” Phil managed, once he’d finally given up trying to find anything better. Clint snorted, looking unexpectedly less uncertain.

“Yeah, I know, I’m kind of a disaster,” Clint continued, confirming Phil’s worst fears.

“You’re not,” Phil said, nearly tripping over his own tongue in his rush to get it out. “It’s understandable, Clint, really. You’re… just prioritizing other things. We all do that. I get it.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, looking at him with what, under any other circumstances, Phil would have thought was fondness. But it didn’t seem possible after Phil had just practically force-fed him quinoa salad and guilt, then vomited up a mass of insecurities at him. “Yeah, you made that clear, with the whole ‘grown man’ speech there. So, just: thank you. I’ve….”

Was he blushing? It was hard to tell, with the candle light and the setting sun through the curtains staining the room orangy-green, but Phil thought maybe he actually was. Clint took a deep breath, shook his head, and started up again.

“Sorry, it’s silly. I’ve just never had anyone notice, before. I guess. Anyway, I feel dumb. I bet you’ve just been dying, here, dealing with takeout or baked chicken every night, right, Mr. Buckwheat?”

That was not, Phil thought, an improvement on  _ Mr. Moore _ . He hoped it was a one-off.

“Uh, I wouldn’t say  _ dying _ exactly,” he said, and cast about desperately for something to lighten the atmosphere. “Maybe just pining a little bit for some broccoli.”

Clint cracked up, his eyes crinkling and his fork dropping from nerveless fingers. The rasp of his laugh sliced straight through the last of Phil’s panic, cutting the knot.

“There’s a mental image that’s gonna linger. Oh, Mr. Moore,” he sighed, “you’re something else.”

Yes, Phil thought faintly, that he was.

“So, it’s… okay?” he asked, tentatively. “I really wasn’t sure, there, for a minute.”

“What, the quinoa?” Clint gestured at his plate, looking startled, “or the— the whole, thing? Yeah, Phil, that’s what I’m telling you: it kills me that you went to all this trouble for me. And— hell— that you didn’t want to hurt my feelings about my cooking either. It’s all great, really. I… I love it.”

He shoved a large forkful of quinoa into his mouth, by way of demonstration, followed quickly by water to wash it down so he could speak again— and complete Phil’s downfall.

“If… if you wouldn’t mind, and if you have the time— I know you’re busy with the dissertation and everything— maybe you could teach me how to do… this?” He waved his hand over the table. 

Phil nodded, unable to speak, and went back to his own meal, feeling defeated. Well… mostly defeated. It was hard to feel  _ too _ bad about making Clint blush shyly and smile that tiny little smile, even if it was entirely by accident and mostly due to quinoa. 

In fact, the longer those looks went on, with Clint giving each bite of salmon a happy little hum, the more Phil felt warm and goopy inside. 

Somehow, through yet another feat of Barton jujitsu, Clint had just come out of the quinoa trap still liking Phil, and Phil was just left wallowing more deeply in love and bewildered. He sat there, munching tepid kale and contemplating a long future of hopelessly pining for a man who could not seem to get the hint that he should be running away. 

Clint would be friends with him, and maybe even let Phil take care of him a little bit, but only a  _ little _ bit, and Phil would be constantly worried he was going to slip and go too far. But it was too late to take it back, and watching the satisfaction on Clint’s face, Phil knew he never would. All he could do was sigh over his unexpectedly quinoa-filled future.

At that moment Clint caught his eye. He raised his glass in a silent toast and gave Phil one of his twisty smiles. And maybe it was wrong of Phil, but he decided then and there that if he was going to pine away, he might as well try to enjoy it. He raised his own glass back, certain that somewhere, for no reason she could name, Melinda May was laughing at him at this very moment.

####

“Oh, for cute,” Tess said from behind Clint, and he jumped in his seat, reflexively slapping his arm down over his lab notebook.

“Uh?” he replied, wondering if he should try to pretend he hadn’t heard her correctly.

“That,” Tess repeated, pointing at the edge of a doodle still visible underneath his wrist. “Were you actually writing your husband’s name in your notebook?”

“No!” Clint said, shocked, then fought the urge to uncover his notebook page. His mind had been wandering, and his hand had been at work without his direction. He had been  _ thinking _ about Phil, that was true. He’d been thinking about Phil a lot over the past several days, ever since the Quinoa Incident. 

He hadn’t been lying— he didn’t remember anyone ever taking the time out to cook a meal for him like that, or to want to make his life better or easier or healthier. Bobbi’d wanted to make his life more exciting, and she’d certainly succeeded, but she was a worse cook than he was and didn’t like doing it anyway. He’d  _ liked _ that about her, it made him feel less hopeless by comparison. Which was why it was so weird that he hadn’t resented that Phil clearly thought he needed help. Maybe it was because Phil was so clearly worried Clint would resent it that he didn’t have the heart to. Or maybe…

Maybe it just felt nice to be thought of in a non-threat assessment sort of way. And it hadn’t stopped with the quinoa: Phil had made dinner the last several nights, carefully narrating what he was making and why. Clint thought he was even starting to like kale, and broiling was a revelation.

Unfortunately, Phil seemed to have bought the quinoa in bulk. Clint could really have done with less quinoa, even if it was a small price to pay for seeing Phil’s face get light as he cooked. 

He had to get himself under control. Otherwise, when this mission was over and they went home he was just going to become a nuisance to Phil. There was no way Phil was going to be interested in doing cooking lessons— or sharing Clint’s kitchen (and home, and bed)— post-mission. Anyway, Clint didn’t even  _ want _ that, since post-mission Clint would just revert to screwing things up. And on-mission Clint needed to remember that just because he’d fallen in love again didn’t mean he had to be an idiot about it this time.

He was trying real hard to be smart for once. So sure, he’d been thinking about Phil instead of paying attention to whatever Tess had been saying about their upcoming assignments and event announcements, but there was no way he’d been writing Phil’s name in his notebook like some teenage stereotype— had he?

Clint peeked after all, and immediately regretted it.

“Oh gosh, look at that, what is that frilly stuff surrounding it?”

“Kale,” Clint said bleakly. 

He  _ had _ been writing Phil’s name, and he’d apparently been embellishing it, too. 

“Kale, huh,” Tess repeated. “That’s… different. “Well, Mr. Kale, here’s your assignment from last week. Nice work, you’ve got a real eye for differentiating vertebrae.”

“You know me, I’m a spine guy,” Clint said, promptly regretting it. His social patter seemed to have momentarily gone on the fritz, possibly the effect of realizing he’d been scribbling brassica around his fake husband’s name in a vague heart-shape.

“Can’t say I’d ever have called that one,” Tess said, winking at him, then she glanced up as the door opened and Milo shuffled through, barely looking up as he passed through the lab to the back hallway.

Clint caught the way she froze, and her grimace. Milo didn’t seem that different to him than he had on Saturday after he’d stopped being manic. He was always fairly hang-dog. Tess watched him closely, though, eyes narrowed.

“Is Milo okay?” he asked her in a low voice.

“Is he— what?” Tess blinked and looked over at him. “Why do you ask?”

“He seemed… weird on Saturday, when Cass and I came down for tutoring.”

“Weird how?” Tess’s voice was unexpectedly sharp.

“I dunno… manic, maybe? Like, he smiled. He seemed happy to see me. He called you ‘Tesla’— is that really your name? Tesla Coyle?”

“Yeah” Tess said, grimacing, “and thanks, parents, that’s the gift that keeps giving. I had an ex whose mother used to give me pigeon-themed presents all the time. Like, just because of the name. I don’t even like birds— especially not  _ that _ way. Ugh.” 

“Wow, and I thought Clinton was bad. Okay, that’s another thing: Milo didn’t say ‘ugh’ once— well, he did eventually. It was just…” Clint shrugged and trailed off. 

Tess looked around, then leaned over and pushed at his returned assignment, as if she wanted to point something out.

“I’ve been worried about him ever since Guatemala,” she confided. “He seemed, I don’t know, off, after we got back.”

“Not in Guatemala itself?”

“I don’t think so— I barely saw him; I was working with Miranda and he was working with Doc Magnos and Doc Santander. But since we’ve been back. I think maybe he picked something up.”

Clint felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“Something like what? A curse?” He tried to keep his voice light. 

Tess did a double-take, then slapped him on the shoulder.

“Not funny, Ford. No, like an infection. Or, like, malaria or something. Look— tell me if you see anything else, will you? He’s shit with his own health. And I may not like the guy but I still, well—”

“Like the guy?”

“Hah, yeah.”

She left him with a pat on the shoulder, and he finally looked down at his grade.

“Well, could be worse,” he muttered to himself.

“Could be what?” That was Quentin, coming in late and slumping into the seat next to Clint, covering nearly everything with his messenger bag. “Hey did we get grades back— oh I guess we did. Hey! Nice!” He nodded at Clint’s grade, then set about putting himself in order. “At least I made it before the test. Didn’t think I would; I got caught in some idiot’s hammock running across the quad. Figured I’d be late for sure. What else did I miss?”

Clint cast his mind back, trying to rid it of kale.

“Uh… not much. Assignments for later, um, getting the old ones back. Oh— something about a lecture gala… thingy this Friday?”

“A what?” Quentin paused in his rummaging.

Clint pointed to the bulletin board, where Tess had tacked up a flyer.

“Some kind of international affairs or history thing the University’s hosting? Tess said whoever it was is a big international political dude.”

“Eh,” Quentin said, wrinkling his nose, “that just means it’s that Pierce dude again. What’s his name? Andrew, Angus— Alexander.”

The world froze around Clint a moment, and went wobbly.

“I’m sorry, who?”

Quentin waved his hand in a spiral, not really looking up, which didn’t help Clint’s confidence in his answer.

“Alexander Pierce. International… peace… security… dude. Doc Santander saved his life in Egypt or something, whatever. He shows up sometimes— even showed up in Guatemala after Magnos went poof. You think I got time to run to the john before the test?”

Clint just stared at Quentin, unable to think. 

The Secretary to the World Security Council was coming to Driftless, and was friends with one of his professors.

Well, this was going to make keeping their mission out of sight of the WSC a lot more interesting.

####

Phil’s resolution to learn how to pine like a man had been working so well for the past few days that it was actually surprising him. He’d thought pining was supposed to hurt, and maybe it was. Maybe he was just doing it wrong— he’d never tried it before, after all— but it seemed to be going along smoothly enough. Maybe he was just a natural— or maybe he was just deluding himself and he’d find out too late that he’d made everything worse. For now, though his evenings with Clint were suddenly easier— even if going to bed had gotten har…. Worse. Had gotten worse. 

So— things were going well as long as Phil discounted those awkward moments in bed when he’d lie in the darkness, not yet ready to put on his CPAP mask and drown out the sound of Clint breathing.

Which was such a small part of their relationship, really, that it was easily discounted. Meanwhile, they cooked dinner together, knocking elbows over the pint-sized stove as they teased each other. After dinner, while they still did their separate chores and then settled into their self-assigned spots in the living room to work, there was a new looseness. They talked more, got further into each others’ business. Clint read Phil bits of his global alien pyramid builders theory readings, and once tried to make him a pyramid hat out of the day’s junk mail. Phil, in turn, would explain tangled bits of his dissertation out loud, sometimes just to hear himself talk it out, sometimes looking for Clint’s advice.

It was amazing what a difference it made when Phil just stopped fighting. Everything was easy, and friendly, and fine between them.

Except for how Phil’s heart stopped at the feel of Clint’s breath on his neck, when Clint leaned over to read off Phil’s laptop screen. Or the way his spine straightened when Clint’s big toe brushed it. Or the way their supply of quinoa seemed never-ending, despite his increasingly-desperate attempts to disguise it amid more palatable foods. Phil supposed that was his penance for shamelessly enjoying the rest— even the awkward bits in bed. He was going to pay heavily for it in heartbreak when the mission was over— every action has an equal and opposite reaction, but that just made him more determined to enjoy it while he could.

It would have taken a stronger man than him not to— he’d never had someone act so interested for so long in his studies. When Phil would wander off on a tangent about how the SSR’s compartmentalization at the end of the war and subsequent lack of cohesion was still visible in the facilities management and logistics of the early SHIELD, Clint would put down his book, put his chin on his hands, and just soak it in. And then he’d ask a couple questions, and prompt Phil for more. No one— outside of his advisor at American U— had ever done that. 

Of  _ course _ Phil was wallowing; it was a nearly textbook case of positive reinforcement. 

So that night when Clint leaned over as Phil was working on his laptop, so close his lashes brushed Phil’s cheekbone and his chin dug into Phil’s shoulder, Phil let himself enjoy the shiver it sent down his spine.

“Hey Phil,” Clint said, “what’s that?”

He’d started more than one conversation that way lately, and Phil felt his lips twitch up in a smile as he prepared to expound.

“You remember that 084 from the Carpathians that I couldn’t find at SHIELD?” he asked Clint. “Well, those boxes you re-shelved for Jeffrey had a series of sketchbooks Dugan had kept in the war. Someone had borrowed them, so they weren’t where they were supposed to be when I originally looked. Anyway, that’s what this is from— it’s a sketch of the object in question.” 

“Huh,” Clint said, “that’s weird. It looks real familiar.”

_ That _ shocked Phil out of the cozy satisfaction he’d been feeling with Clint’s chin on his shoulder and a minor mystery solved. He sat up straight, dislodging Clint, and looked around, staring intently at him. Clint was still looking at the laptop screen, so intent he didn’t seem to notice that Phil had moved.

“Wait, you’re telling me you’ve seen this thing?” he tapped the screen.

“Not that thing, no,” Clint said. “But I’ve seen that decoration.” He reached out and traced the lollipop sticks, circles, squares that covered the object. “In the anthro lab.”

“On what? Or where?” Phil asked. He was aware, as he did it, that he’d modulated back into his agent-tone. But this was SHIELD work, and he had been an agent long enough to know a crack in the case when he stumbled over one.

“This stela— big-ass tablet— from the dig. Has a goat head and some kind of classic bas reliefs of jaguars and gods, and then along the sides it has  _ that _ .”

“Are you sure? I mean, I don’t even know if this is writing or just decorative. And there’s got to be a lot of decoration that looks like this, it’s just geometric lines. It can’t be that distinctive.”

“Oh but it can,” Clint told him. “I didn’t get a 90% on my pottery typology, for nothing, Mr. Moore. That stuff doesn’t appear on anything else from the dig, and it  _ does _ appear on this stela.”

“But… this came from Serbia,” Phil said, tapping the screen himself.

“I know. Wild, huh? You wanna know what’s wilder?” Clint’s voice had dipped into mission-mode too, Phil noticed, and his entire body was straining forward like he was a dog that’d finally caught the scent he was after. 

“What’s wilder?” Phil asked him.

“That stela’s the one Cass thought came from Temple B,” Clint said, “the site that Doc Burgoyne and Doc Santander kicked all the kids out of.  _ And _ it was out in the lab the early part of the week, but after I oh-so-casually asked Doc Santander about it— asked did he know what it said and stuff— it disappeared.”

“It might just be back in storage.”

“It might,” Clint agreed, “but it’s awfully big to move back and forth. I don’t think we were supposed to ask questions, ya know?”

Phil looked back at the sketch on his screen, and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “That  _ is _ weird.”

“It’s more than that,” Clint said, sounding smug, “it’s a  _ lead _ . A solid lead.”

He paused, looking at the laptop again, then sighed.

“If only I know what it was a lead  _ to _ .”

“Hrmph,” Phil said, watching Clint more than the laptop now, the way his face was sharpening, his gaze fixing on the 084. No matter how often he saw it, watching Clint find his target and calculate his shot was always a thrill. “What’s the plan?”

Clint bit his lip.

“Not sure. I need into that inventory database, that’s for sure.”

“The locked inventory database,” Phil said.

“The locked inventory database. Arg.” Clint blew his breath out. “Gotta think that one through. Maybe I can fake I need access to it for homework again or choose a paper topic that means I need it. I can ask Tess tomorrow. Meanwhile, if I don’t get this reading done I’m screwed.”

Phil looked at the book spread open in his lap— and then tried not to look past the book to the rest of Clint’s lap. Pining was a very delicately balanced activity. Any wrong move could send him toppling, and he was pretty sure staring at Clint’s crotch would count as a wrong move.

As would inviting Clint to get screwed another way while he was at it.

That didn’t mean he didn’t think about asking it.

“You’ll work it out, Indy,” he said instead. “I have faith in you. Now— tell me about your pyramids.”

“Oh, this isn’t pyramids,” Clint said, pointing to the book. “This is textile design. I’m reading up on Jacquard looms.”

“So, tell me about your jacquard looms,” Phil said, and got a happy grin for his trouble.

Yes, he was screwed. But he could bask just a little longer, couldn’t he? He settled in to listen, and to watch the way Clint’s hands moved as he talked, wondering if there was a single thing Clint could do with them that Phil wouldn’t find fascinating.

####

“What I can’t figure out,” Clint said suddenly into the darkness late that night, ”is why you’d take advanced lock-down security precautions on a flippin’ list of dish fragments. And tablets and stelae and shit, I guess, but really.”

Phil sighed and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. 

Really? Now? When he’d finally managed to get his brain to shut down and stop replaying Dum Dum Dugan’s highly detailed accounting of the various types of mud found in the Carpathians? When his dick had finally stopped alerting him to the close proximity of Clint’s hip and thigh to his own backside? He’d had an even harder time than usual falling asleep— that one downside to the pining project, again. Now they only had a half hour to go until Opera Time and if Phil was still awake for the overture his dreams inevitably ended up full of aria-singing zombies and countertenor fish. 

Pining like a man was a lot easier when the object of your affection wasn’t trying to talk to you at two AM.

Maybe… maybe if he kept very quiet and very still…. 

“I mean, it just  _ looks _ sneaky, when chances are if they just left it alone, no one would ever look at the stupid lists again, ya know?”

Dammit.

Well, Clint appeared to be doing fine in this conversation without Phil’s participation. Maybe he could still get to sleep, if he just treated it like more white noise. He focused in on the whoosh of his CPAP and dug his head more firmly into his pillow.

“Unless,” Clint continued, “unless that’s the point, and they  _ want _ people try to get into the files. That’s a possibility. Maybe they’re already suspicious that people are suspicious of them, and are using the database as bait. In that case they might not even have anything useful  _ in  _ the files. Maybe whatever they’ve got that’s that important, they’ve put it somewhere else and and what’s in the database is just a decoy. Huh. That… that’s a pretty disturbing possibility.” 

It was indeed, Phil thought, but surely it could keep ‘til morning. He exhaled deeply, then snorted a lungful of moist air through his mask, hoping the hit of oxygen would lull him down. 

“Last thing we want to do is let people know I’m looking. Or confirm it if they suspect,” Clint said. “So I better not ask for access to the database after all. Right?”

Right.

“Phil? Am I right?” Clint poked him, sounding concerned. 

It turned out Phil had been wrong earlier in the evening— there was  _ one _ thing Clint could do with his fingers that Phil wouldn’t find fascinating, and that was prodding him in the shoulder while Phil was trying to sleep. He curled in on himself more, freezing when the motion brushed his ass up against Clint’s… no, he was not going to try and identify the body part. That way lay insomnia.

“Hey, c’mon Phil. What d’you think? Is it a trap, or a misdirection, or am I just being paranoid? Phil? Phil? You awake? Hey Phil… c’mon, I’m pretty sure you’re awake. You’re breathing all shallow.”

Phil rolled over and gave Clint what he hoped was a baleful glare, then tipped his mask up. Air hissed out.

“Do we really have to do this now?”

Clint had the grace to at least look sheepish.

“Well, I didn’t want to go to sleep and forget. Do you need me to repeat anything?”

Phil felt his jaw go tight as he fought back his instinctive reaction, which was mostly a series of words strong enough to strip paint. After a short battle he managed to swallow them all down and flail backwards over his shoulder to shut off the CPAP. It stopped with a reproachful beep, and Phil shoved himself upright. 

“You might be paranoid,” he growled, just because Clint had put paid to his fond dreams of having one night without dreaming of the Howling Commandos in Wagnerian costume, “but I don’t think you’re wrong. It could definitely be a trap, and you shouldn’t risk asking anyone for special access.”

“Yeah. Yeah… you’re probably right.” Clint sighed. 

He leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms over his bare chest, raising his knees and displacing the book that had been tented on them. It slid down to his feet. If Phil hadn’t been about 1.5 seconds from smothering him so that he could finally get some sleep, he would probably have found the whole pose stupidly attractive. As it was, he hoped that the next words out of Clint’s mouth were going to be “guess I’ll go to sleep, then.”

“Guess I’ve got to figure out another way to get my hands on what was in Temple B, then,” Clint said. “I mean, assuming they even wrote that down somewhere. Should I ask Sitwell to have people crack the database? ‘Cause that’s a skill I don’t have yet. At least, not without it being obvious.”

“Probably,” Phil said, yawning conspicuously by way of a hint, “but can we please just sleep on the question?”

Clint glanced over at him, managing to look somewhat apologetic. 

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, probably a good idea. I’ll contact Sitwell in the AM. Later in the AM.” He shuffled down in the bed until he was prone, kicking his book to the floor in the process. After a pause, he appeared to realize he still had his hearing aids in. He reached up to dig them out, tipped them into their dehumidifier, and then turned out his light. 

“G’night, Phil,” he said into the darkness. 

With a relieved sigh, Phil rolled back over and slipped his mask on.

At least he’d genuinely found the interruption annoying. He concentrated on clearing his mind, on not thinking about how ironic it was, how stupid his heart was, to start finding Clint genuinely aggravating now that he’d gone and fallen in love with the guy. He had committed to pining, and all these emotional swings were exhausting. His wished his heart would make its damn mind up.

Of course, his heart didn’t really have a brain of its own, which was probably the problem there.

Also, this line of thought was not helping him sleep.

Phil tried again, settling into deep breathing, counting in for five, hold seven, out five. He tried again to blank his mind.

He really did.

After five minutes, he gave it up, shut off his CPAP, sat up, and poked Clint in his firm, smooth shoulder. 

“There’s a paper inventory, right?”

Clint didn’t move, though his breathing stuttered.

“Clint. Clint. There’s a paper inventory, right?” Phil considered poking him again, just for good measure.

“Goddammit, go to sleep,” Clint muttered, the words muffled in his pillow.

Phil glared down at him, at his stupid shoulders curled up around his stupid slack face, profile still stupidly stirring in repose. 

“No,” Phil said. “You woke me up, you can deal. There’s a paper inventory.” 

“Phil, my ears are out and the lights are off. Go to sleep.” 

Clint sounded positively cranky. Phil felt satisfaction settle hot in his chest at getting a rise out of— that thought wasn’t going in a direction he wanted. He bent down and poked Clint harder to distract himself.

When that didn’t work, he leaned over to speak directly into Clint’s ear.

“So turn the lights on.”

There was a pause, and Phil wondered if he was about to get beaten with a pillow.

“I hate you,” Clint muttered.

Phil tried, he really tried not to provoke Clint further.

Well, he tried a little. 

He thought about trying, at any rate.

“Really?” he said.

Clint flipped on the light, then flipped over to glare at Phil. His face was so close they were practically breathing each others’ exhalations. At least, they would have been if Phil had still been breathing. He wasn’t, as it happened, because his body was caught between the weird swoop in his gut at the possibility Clint was finally starting to dislike him after all, and the flush of desire at having his lips and hips so very, very close.

And his eyes so very, very wide.

“Wrong ear,” Clint said at least, and Phil blinked.

“What?”

“That was the wrong ear you were talking into,” he sat up, and Phil rolled over on his back rather than risk being kissed on accident as Clint rose. “And no.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t hate you. I just wish I did right now.”

Phil’s stomach gave a traitorous lurch of relief. He sat up to distract himself from it.

“Okay,” Clint sighed, “what the hell was so important?”

“There’s a paper inventory,” Phil repeated, trying to keep frustration from leaking out.

“Yeah, but it’s locked up too,” Clint told him.

Phil huffed at him, and received a grimace in response.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s like five seconds of work for a trained operative. But not when everyone is around the lab.”

“So we go in after everyone’s left,” Phil said. 

“Right, except have you forgotten Bent is there till, like 2 or 3 AM each night rehydrating his poop?”

Phil had indeed forgotten, although how he  _ could,  _ given the smell, was an open question.

“Dammit.” He sat back himself, crossing his own arms in a mirror image of Clint’s. 

They both glared at their knees. Clint’s archaeology peers clearly had no respect for the needs of undercover agents who just wanted to do their jobs, finish their dissertations, go home, and stop having to do dangerous things like sleep together.

“But…” Clint drew it out, chewing on his lip for a moment in thought before continuing, “what if we went in tomorrow night? Everyone’ll be at that gala thing listening to Pierce. We’d have about two hours to work and a natural excuse to be in the building, if we’re spotted.”

“It puts us nearer to Pierce though— I don’t want to deal with Fury if Pierce recognizes us and goes back to him.”

“Yeah but we’re trying not to get caught anyway, and it’s not like anyone’s going to bring the Secretary of the WSC down to the archaeology lab. It’s our best bet.”

Phil considered the options a moment longer, before concluding Clint was right— it was their best bet. And it meant they could get to sleep on time.

“Yes,” He said at last, “good plan.” 

“Great. Now,” Clint poked his knee, “go back to sleep, Mr. Moore. We’re not really married, and this whole two AM talk thing is taking verisimilitude way too far.”

“You started it,” Phil said, but he did as he was told, settling down with his back to Clint and replacing his CPAP.

Clint turned off the light.

Phil adjusted his mask, mashed the on button on his machine, and wriggled his shoulders more firmly into his pillow, plumping it up under his cheek.

The humid air hissed, and Phil’s breathing started to even out.

In five, hold seven, out five.

Try not to think about Clint’s hip next to his.

In five, hold seven, out five.

Think about Peggy Carter instead.

In five, hold seven, out five.

No, that was stupid. Try to just not think at all.

In five, hold… seven… out… five…. In… five…

… out…

Seven…

In…

Just as he was drifting at last, Phil heard the opening strains of _Die Fledermaus_ from the other side of the wall. Simultaneously, Clint snorted in his sleep and rolled over, flopping the back of his hand onto Phil’s hip.

Phil sobbed into his mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: several things happen that were, let's face it, pretty much inevitable, and Phil wonders whether that's a flashlight in Clint's pocket, or Clint really is just happy to see him. 
> 
> The next chapter posts the weekend of ~~March 17-18~~ March 24-25. Life, ugh.
> 
> It's one you're not gonna want to miss.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was inevitable, really. All of it. 
> 
> (Including the rating change.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the rating's gone all the way up to E. It doesn't get there till the very end of the chapter, so if you like to fade away stop reading after the-- well, it'll be really, really obvious. 
> 
> Also, mild content warnings-- see end notes.

Clint got to the lab early on Friday morning, hoping to reconnoiter the department before students got there. It wasn’t often he had advance access to a place he needed to break into. He wanted to take advantage of the luxury: find out exactly how each door squeaked, note the blind corners and sightlines; memorize the distances to every point of egress— both official and not. He felt a little dumb doing it; this was the kind of infiltration he should’ve been able to do in his sleep. But Phil was going to be with him, and Phil appreciated thoroughness.

Also, if Tess or Milo had left storage open and unoccupied before lab hours started, it wouldn’t hurt to see if the goat-headed stela was in its usual place, and to swap out the latest set of listening devices. They still weren’t transmitting, so he’d taken to retrieving them during lab each week to harvest their contents. So far, that amounted to little more than slamming doors and whining students (or whining Milos). 

When he first got in, the lab seemed to be satisfactorily deserted, so he deposited his backpack in an inconspicuous corner and made for the back hallway. It was quiet and still, except for the expected flicker of the fluorescent lights. There was a slight hum, but Clint couldn’t tell if that was from the lights, his hearing aids, or something new. He glanced around, and found the door to the steam tunnels propped open.

He started to creep up to it, before deciding that would look a lot more suspicious if he was caught than just walking over like he had no idea why anyone would want to keep him out. He adjusted his stride to Innocent and Nosy, and pushed the door all the way open.

The steam tunnel was… a steam tunnel, really. It was distinguishable from the many other steam tunnels Clint had known mostly by having been built from limestone block rather than concrete. The floor had been smoothed over and painted a kind of industrial green, but the blocks were just… block. Here and there, drips seeped from between the seams. The walls to both sides were obscured by ranks of steam pipes, which also dripped at the seams. Electric cords and incandescent lights marched down the center of the tunnel’s ceiling and off into the distance, where they disappeared around a corner. 

Clint twitched, half of him wanting to go forward, head down into the darkness and see where the tunnel went. To another building? To one of the facilities management warehouses built into the cliff? To the river itself? And if so, where did they come out— was it those locked steel doors in the side of the cliff? Or was there another outlet? One right under a bridge? Or right near where he’d found Ellen bobbing in a backwater? There was, he realized, more than enough space in the tunnel to carry one small, lifeless body.

He closed his eyes against the mental image of Ellen slung over someone’s shoulder, her head and arms bobbing along behind, and swallowed down the nausea that came with it. She’d have been a light load; somehow that was the absolute worst part of it. That she’d barely have been an inconvenience to anyone with a strong back.

Or a wheelie cart.

“Goddammit it,” he muttered to himself. “Not now, Barton. Not  _ now _ .”

The mental image lingered, though, like it was burned against his eyelids by the sun. It strengthened the half of him that wanted to back away and slam the door shut. Anyway, he hadn’t come here to explore the steam tunnel, he’d come to make sure he could keep Phil safe while they searched— he could explain his presence just fine if they were discovered. Phil, not so much. He wavered on the threshold, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

A door closed somewhere behind him, and Clint rocketed backwards.

“Mr. Ford? What are you doing?”

Clint froze, his hand twitching on the door, then turned.

Dr. Jones was standing outside the door to her office, staring at him with a frown that was about an even mix of surprise and suspicion.

“Uh,” Clint said, as his hand came up to rub the back of his neck almost against his will, “just looking.”

“That door’s always locked,” Jones said, starting forward.

“It was open when I got here,” Clint said with all the ease of perfect truth. “I got curious.”

“Huh.” Jones stalked past him and looked down the tunnel. “That’s weird.”

She started down it, and Clint followed her. 

“Anyone here?” she called as she went. “Come out now, or else you’ll be locked in!”

“Can’t they just get out the other end?” Clint asked. 

Jones didn’t bother to look back, she just shrugged. Above them, the lights flickered and dimmed. 

“Not unless they have a key. If it’s one of us, it’s one thing— we’d notice us being gone. But some other student got down here before you? They better hope they can live off leaky steam tunnel water for a few weeks. Maintenance doesn’t come this way often, and neither do we.”

Jones seemed to be in a chatty mood, so Clint decided to keep asking.

“Where do they even go?” he wondered.

“Where don’t they? This place is an anthill, Ford. You can get all over campus by tunnel— and that’s just the ones in use. These ones go to the facilities shops down by the river, but there are old tunnels— there, you’ll see one up ahead— that we don’t use anymore. Who knows where those go.”

She nodded to a shadowed spot in the wall, behind the pipes, and Clint squinted. It was an old archway, and behind it was a locked and barred door that looked like it belonged in a secret lair in the Carpathians. 

“That’s… atmospheric,” Clint said.

Jones snorted in reply and prepared to turn the corner. Clint paused, looking behind him at the door to the hallway, which was still open a crack.

“You… you do have a key, right?” he asked.

Jones shook her head shortly and kept going.

“Okay,” Clint said, feeling ever more uneasy, “I really don’t think anyone’s down here. And I don’t want anyone to lock  _ us _ in.”

That did, finally, make Jones pause and turn to look back at him. Clint tried to hit a balance between showing fear and radiating confidence. He was pretty sure it just made him look twisty.

“You make a good point, Ford,” Jones began, and Clint started to relax.

Which was, of  _ course _ , when something clanged down deeper in the tunnel system. It echoed down the corridors once, then was silent.

“Oh, for—” Clint said, at the same time as Jones growled

“ _ Typical,”  _ sounding unncannily like a SHIELD field agent when someone had just been foolish enough to say  _ Well this’ll be easy.  _ Clint mentally revised the similarities between field work in archaeology and international espionage upwards a notch.

They stared at each other, wide-eyed, for a moment.

“You go hold the door open,” Jones told him. “I’ll see what that is. I know the way.”

Clint agreed, relieved. Before he could round the corner, though, Doc Santander’s voice echoed from the hallway.

“Alexander!” he called heartily, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Or,” Clint said, backing away reflexively, “I can go look and you hold the door.” 

Jones opened her mouth to protest, but Clint was already moving. He just hoped he hadn’t read her wrong and that she wouldn’t lock him in herself. He hadn’t gotten two feet, nor had she, before they heard Santander’s voice again, nearer this time.

“What’s this doing open? Miranda, this is unconscionable. Damn maintenance crew.”

And then, before he or Jones could do more than take in a breath to call out, the door clanged shut.

  
  
  


####

The overhead lights, of course, went out.

After a long moment, the silence that had fallen along with the darkness was broken by Jones sighing

“Are you  _ kidding _ me,” in a forlorn voice. 

He heard her shifting, and then a puddle of light trickled around the corner. Clint finally unfroze and dug in his own pocket until he found the mini-maglite he kept on his keychain. He flicked it on as well, and headed rapidly around the corner to join her.

Jones hadn’t waited for him; she was all the way up by the steel door, pounding on it. The noise reverberated down the hallway, blurring with the ceaseless stream of curses she’d started emitting. Clint shook his head, beginning to get overwhelmed with the sources of sound.

Which was why he entirely missed the scuffling behind him, right until someone slammed into him and he flailed and fell over, dropping his keys and light.

“Ugh.”

“Milo?” Clint asked, grabbing the mini-maglite and pointing it upwards. 

Milo’s face appeared, sallow in the glow of the LED. He blinked, his eyes so dilated they were nearly mole-like behind his glasses.

“What’re you doing here, Ford?” 

Clint pushed himself upright, trying to back subtly away. 

“Dr. Jones found the tunnels open. We were checking to see if anyone got in before she closed the door.”

“Oh.” Milo looked around, as if Jones would materialize if he stared hard enough. “Ugh. Come on.”

He stepped past Clint and headed for the door.

“It’s locked,” Clint said, scrambling after him. “Someone locked us in.”

“Ugh,” Milo said, this time varying his tone so it came out less disgusted and more resigned. 

It was nice, Clint decided as he followed after, knowing Milo had an ugh for every occasion. 

When they got to the door, they found that Jones had stopped pounding and was busy trying to pick the lock. Clint came over and shone his light on it while trying to decide whether he should offer his assistance. Actually, on the whole, she was doing a great job— unless he wanted to bring out the lockpicks secreted in his wallet, he couldn’t do much to help.

“I found Milo,” he told her. “Or else Milo found me.”

“Ugh,” Jones said. “At least we didn’t get locked in here for nothing, then. Can you start pounding on a pipe or doing something that makes noise? See if we can raise someone from the outside.”

“Sure,” Clint agreed, and searched around until he found an abandoned length of pipe, which he whacked on the nearest metal strut. It creaked alarmingly. “Or… I could  _ not _ whack things that might break and flood the tunnel with steam?”

“Or that.” Jones sighed and sat back from the lock, poking it once and growling. After a moment she started pounding on the door again.

“Merlin you goddamn bastard, if you’re still here let us  _ out!  _ You hear me? Let. Us. Out!”

The door clicked.

Jones scuttled backwards as it swung open and the lights flickered on again overhead.

“Why Dr. Jones,” Santander said, looking into the tunnel, “this is nearly as unexpected as when we met in Aguateca. All that’s missing is the sloth.”

“I’ve got a sloth for you, Merlin,” Jones growled at him as she stood up. 

Santander blinked at her as if surprised by her attitude, then looked past her and saw Clint and Milo. 

“Good heavens,” he said. “More of you. Well come out, come out. You missed Alexander Pierce, Jones. Miranda took him upstairs to that thing with the board of trustees. I tried to find you in your office to say hello— but I suppose you were in here.”

“Probably. But I’m sure I won’t escape him entirely. I’ll probably see him at the gala.” 

Jones stepped out into the hallway, Clint and Milo following quickly on her heels. She brushed right past Santander and made for her office.

“It wasn’t his fault, you know,” Santander called after her. “At the embassy. He tried his best. We all did!”

Jones’ door slammed shut, reverberating down the hallway and as far as the steam tunnels.

Pierce had gone to Guatemala himself? If so, why was Fury so dissatisfied that he’d sent Clint and Phil? And— why was Dr. Jones?

“Ah well,” Santander said, turning back to Clint, “pity you didn’t get to meet him, Mr. Ford. He’d have been very interested in your experiences whilst you were in Iraq.”

“Would he?” Clint asked, following Santander down the hall. Behind him, he heard Milo close the door to the tunnels. The air in the hallways seemed a little warmer all of a sudden. “Why, because of the World Whatever It Is Commission?”

“World Security Council, but no. I meant archaeologically.”

Santander had reached his office, and turned to go in. Clint followed, since he seemed to be in an expansive mood. He needed all the intel he could get— it was beginning to look like he and Phil might have a harder time than they’d thought staying away from Pierce. He seemed pretty friendly with the faculty.

“How so?” Clint asked, leaning casually against the door jamb as Santander collapsed backwards in his scuffed leather desk chair. 

“Sit down, sit down,” Santander said, gesturing to a couple of guest chairs half-buried under student exams. 

Clint moved one and sat. Santander hummed appreciatively, then tipped back in his chair, folded his hands over his belly, and closed his eyes, either the better to see the past, or the better to nap.

After a moment, he started, in a kind of distant, sing-song voice. “He and I saw the Isis Gate together, back when we were young. Well— when I was young.” He sighed reminiscently. “Alex was somewhat older— and wiser, or more worldly-wise. You know how it is, I expect. He was… remarkable. Exquisite.”

“Why was he there?” Clint asked softly, when the pause dragged on. It was hard to imagine Alexander Pierce as anything close to  _ exquisite _ . Intimidating, sure. That, Clint could see.

“Oh, he was an attache of the embassy— and the liaison between our government and the Iraqis, sponsoring our dig. Usually it’s a formality, but Alexander was genuinely interested in my advisor’s work. I believe he was caught up in the romance of the Babylonian mythos— as was I. Indeed, it would have been hard not to be.”

Santander had, Clint remembered, had his heart broken by a cuneiform expert. Had this been on the same dig? No wonder his face had broken into a kind of regretful fondness.

“It sounds like you’ve got a lot of stories from Iraq,” he said carefully. 

“Oh I do, I do. And so many of them involve Alex. He would spend whole days sitting by me while I dug, talking about— oh, everything. Nothing. I don’t know— what frustrated him at the embassy, what my advisor was doing. Sometimes he’d spin these wild stories and theories about ancient gods. Tales that wouldn’t have been out of place in Jones’s Pseudoarchaeology class. Poor man, I think he was still trying to think the world was beautiful, but his job was making it difficult. We’d go out on expeditions together, into the markets or off into the country. Nearly ended up kidnapped twice, but Alex got us out of it. He was nearly as fascinating to me as Akkadian liver models. He was fascinating to Yvette, too, which is it’s own story.”

Yvette? The cuneiform expert? Clint leaned forward.

“It sounds a lot better than when I was there,” he said encouragingly.

“I suppose so.” Santander’s laugh was dry, though, and a little bitter. “Until the Ba’ath party came back to power that July. The last I saw Alex he was stuffing us on a plane and waving goodbye. After that, well— we moved in different circles, as the saying goes. Still, adventure like that creates a bond. I was gratified to see him rise in the world, and even more gratified that he agreed to come to the gala. You don’t want to miss the lecture. He’s a one-of-a-kind mind.”

Gratified?

“But you didn’t invite him?” Clint asked. Santander opened his eyes and sat up, blinking as he came back to the present.

“Ah, well, I— oh. Yes?” Clint turned, to find Burgoyne standing in the doorway, her face shadowed.

“Merlin, I’ve left Pierce with the trustees. We need to talk about tonight. Mr. Ford, I believe your lab hours are starting.”

“Oh. Right,” Clint said, removing himself from the office as quickly as he could.

Santander’s door swung shut behind him.

####

“And how was your day, dear?” Phil asked as Clint walked through the door, dropping his bag.

Clint rolled his eyes, but came over all the same, kissing Phil lightly. Phil closed the top of his laptop enough so that he could accept the kiss without it getting squashed between them. The impression of Clint’s lips tingled on his cheek as Clint pulled away— other places tingled, too, but Phil’d gotten wise to his own reactions by now. The laptop had been strategically placed. It was frustrating, the way his body kept getting more and more sensitive to Clint, but if that was part of the pining, he’d learn to compensate.

Eventually he’d start getting used to it, after all. Just like when he’d first realized he liked guys at all, and all of a sudden there were guys  _ everywhere _ — guys with asses, guys with arms, guys with knees that were nibble-worthy. He’d gone around, gangly and fourteen and severely compromised whenever he saw a nice set of wrists, but eventually it had stopped. (Rinse and repeat, of course, for the first time he’d touched a girl’s breasts, had sex, had sex with another gender, discovered handcu— but he was getting off topic.)

So it had always gone, and so it would with Clint. The love, he suspected, would remain. Granted, he had nothing to compare it to, but unless Clint did something drastically unlike himself— joined a cult, tried to kill Romanoff, ran for office— he couldn’t see it dissipating. The few days since this bit of self-discovery had calmed Phil considerably about the prospect. He’d just tuck that away and get on with life. Once they were done here, anyway, and once Clint was done dragging Phil’s fondness back up every time he did something sexy— like collapse on the futon next to him and put his feet up.

“Hi,” Clint said, rolling his head back and closing his eyes. 

“Uh, how  _ was _ your day, dear?” Phil repeated, suddenly concerned. 

“Great! I was nearly entombed in the steam tunnels with Milo— who is still acting weird, by the way. Not as weird as he was, but you know, not normal. Not even for Milo.”

“You were entombed in steam tunnels with Milo?” Phil forgot about his laptop.

“Nearly entombed. And Doc Jones was there, too. Don’t worry, Doc Santander let us out.”

“I can see that,” Phil said, earning a snort from his faux-spouse. “I’ll send him a thank you note.”

“He’d probably like that. Oh my god, Phil, you know what else? I think Santander was, like, in love with Alexander Pierce, way back in the day. It was hard to tell whether it was one of those old-fashioned romantic best friends both in love with the same woman— who I think was the cuneiform expert, did I tell you about the cuneiform expert?— or if she and Santander were both in love with Pierce. Or maybe it was all just friendly and I’m just seeing sad, hopeless love affairs everywhere now.”

“Where else are you seeing them?” Phil asked, since this was the first he’d heard of any kind of love affair from Clint. Well, any kind of love affair that wasn’t one of Clint’s exes.

Clint opened his eyes wide.

“Uh. Well, Bent and his coprolites. Look, you know what I mean—” Phil didn’t think he did, but shrugged anyway— “Santander used to know Pierce, if not  _ know _ know him. Oh and also I found out I have a quiz in Textile Design on Monday on materials with hydrophobic properties  _ and _ she’s holding it in the aquatics center and I’m afraid to ask why. Oh, and also, it turns out I have to actually show up at Pierce’s speech tonight before the gala. It’s something about archaeology in modern international relations and he talks about the UN war tribunals he was with Burgoyne on so she’s made it mandatory.”

“Shit,” Phil said, “there goes our plan.”

“Kinda maybe. I figure we can come in and sit in the back where Pierce isn’t going to see us, then slip out once he’s started talking and I’ve got enough that I can fake having seen the whole thing— hey, what’s that?”

“Millet bake,” Phil replied, responding to Clint’s non sequiteur first to give himself time to sort through the rest of the torrent of information. He maximized the recipe on his screen, and Clint leaned over for a better look. “I thought for this weekend.”

“Millet bake,” Clint repeated, sounding skeptical. “Isn’t that bird food?”

“So are sunflower seeds but that’s never stopped you.”

“Point.” Clint settled back down, close enough to Phil to seem perfectly conjugal. There was a sliver of distance between them though, Phil noticed. Clint had been doing that more lately, as if the closer they got over dinner and homework the more he was careful to draw a line between their bodies. Unfortunately, it only made Phil’s hyper-Clint-awareness problem worse. 

Right now, for instance, Phil could feel the warmth that radiated from Clint’s skin even in the middle of the sticky humidity of summer, see the sweat glistening on his neck and temple. If he reached out just a little, he could run his knuckles along the hem of Clint’s shorts, drawn tight across his lower thigh, lace his own fingers through Clint’s strong, spatulate ones where his hands curled into the space between his gaping—

“Phil?” Clint asked.

Phil pulled away from his digital preoccupation and turned what he hoped was an innocent, questioning face to Clint. 

“Yeah?”

“What d’you think?”

“About wh— oh, the. Yes. In backwards order, I think we can make the lecture work, but we need to make sure we’re not near anyone we know well— don’t want them to see us sneak out. I think that under any other circumstances I would love to  _ actually _ hear that lecture, it sounds a lot less boring than the ones he gives to lobbying groups back home, that I don’t know whether Yvette broke Santander’s heart because she preferred Pierce or because she stole him or because he stole her and you know what— the mental images inherent in any of those scenarios aren’t ones I ever needed about the Secretary of the World Security Council so thank you for that. Also, I’d greatly appreciate it if you tried not to get yourself entombed anywhere because finding you would be a real distraction from my dissertation. Does that cover it all?”

Clint, as Phil had hoped, burst out in his creaky laugh.

“Wouldn’t want to do that, Mr. Moore,” he said. “I’m interested in that dissertation of yours right now. Can’t leave me hanging. Okay.” He slapped his palms down on his thighs, then heaved himself to his feet. “I’m gonna shower and change quick, since we’ve got to be a little fancy if we’re gonna do this lecture thing. We can do dinner when I get down, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, watching Clint rub his lower back and reminding himself that he was a grown man with extensive sexual experience and that the sight of Clint’s rear flexing so close to his face should not affect him.

He adjusted the laptop anyway.

Clint took a circuitous route past the record player on his way upstairs, flipping the needle down, and Phil took it as his sign to start the mise en place. 

They’d been making their way through Phil’s vinyl collection in the evenings as they cooked together, because Clint said it helped keep him patient and not do things like turn the heat up high and scorch the onions. He was the one who chose the music— Phil just waited to see what he’d come up with, and tried not to read anything into the selections. 

Last night had been  _ Baduism _ , this morning Clint had apparently gone old-school; after a hiss and crackle,  _ Garden of Earthly Delights _ picked up. Phil thought one last time of Clint’s fingers knotted together between his thighs, then turned himself towards dinner.

Andy Partridge was in the middle of a verse and Phil was in the middle of prep, cucumber in hand and knife raised, when Clint came back downstairs. He was already singing along, and Phil knew if he turned he’d find Clint bopping. There was never a moment— except when Clint had a bow in hand and a target in his sights— when he didn’t seem to be in motion. Phil moved to make room as Clint came up even with him, and turned.

Clint had changed all right— tight black jeans, a tank top that showed off every last inch of broad bicep, and a silvery sort of button-down slung over his shoulder.

“Don’t want to get it dirty while we cook,” he said with a wink, and tossed the shirt on his chair.

“Smart man,” Phil told him, looking determinedly at the shirt.

“Well,” Clint said, twinkling, and quoting along to the record player, “I may be the Mayor of Simpleton, but I know one thing.”

Then he came up to help Phil, and let Andy Partridge finish the line alone.

After a moment, Phil even felt steady enough to hand over the cucumber.

####

“You know, I was almost sorry to leave,” Phil said, his breath hot on the back of Clint’s neck. “He was just getting interesting. I remember hearing about Rio from Nick.”

Clint grunted, trying to shrug down the goosebumps that Phil’s lips— so close to his bare skin— were raising. After a steadying breath, he re-focused on his lockpicks, and the keyhole he’d inserted them into— or was trying to. They weren’t taking the way he wanted; the last pick didn’t feel at all right, and the lock wouldn’t budge.

“Reach in my right pants pocket,” he told Phil, “and grab my maglite, okay? I need a better look. This lock is so damn worn I can’t tell if I’ve even got it all in. And we’d already wasted enough time waiting for those useless opening speeches to be over. Why do they do that anyway? No one’s there to hear some old trustee talk.”

The question was mostly to distract Phil, and to keep himself from thinking about the way Phil’s breath had stopped when Clint had asked for the flashlight— and how shallow the puffs were, how careful and measured, as Phil slid his long fingers beneath the denim and into the thin inner lining of Clint’s pocket, shifting as they searched. If only he had better hearing, or Phil had been pressed slightly closer, he might have been able to tell if Phil’s heartbeat had started beating as fast as his own, too.

It might not mean what Clint thought it meant— they’d gotten good and worked up there in the auditorium, sitting in the back and rubbing thighs as they attempted to fail at discreetly feeling each other up. Faking a bathroom quickie hadn’t been their first plan— but Cassie had found them and insisted on sitting with them, which meant they needed a plausible excuse to leave. Phil’d seemed perfectly okay with it, at least— hell, he’d  _ started _ it. And then, long after the introductory speeches had started, his friend Phyl had slipped into the seat on the other side of him, apologizing for the interruption and settling in with a few mutters and wiggles as she got comfortable.

Phil had frozen for long enough that Clint thought maybe he’d lost his nerve, before his shoulders sagged in defeat. Then he’d leaned over and gone back to running his fingers up the crease of Clint’s thigh and hip, and Clint hadn’t even had to pretend that his pants had gotten uncomfortably tight. He’d never been the focus of Phil’s seductive energies— real or fake— for this long before. And he’d never been quite so aware of Phil’s response, of his own shiver as Clint’s nails had ghosted across the back of his neck.

By the time Pierce had started speaking and Phil had slipped away towards the back exit, a not-that-subtle tap on Clint’s thigh telling him to wait five then join him, Clint had badly needed the break. And some kind of cover for his crotch— he’d been forced to hold his program awkwardly against his hip as he pushed past Phyl and her companion (Clint’s counselor, because not enough people had seen him compromised tonight) on his way out.

At least that was three people who would be willing to swear up, down, and sideways that Phil Moore and Clint Ford had disappeared for a quickie, not an infiltration. 

Unfortunately for Clint, it was an infiltration they were currently attempting, and his body was way, way to sensitized to Phil’s fingers wriggling around in his pocket and not nearly as sensitive as it should be to the lock he was picking. Thankfully, Phil either couldn’t tell he was horny as hell, or was pretending he hadn’t noticed. He retrieved the maglite and held it over Clint’s shoulder, illuminating the lock.

Clint, in turn, slipped the lockpicks in the right way at last, sighing in relief as the last tumbler gave. He pretended he didn’t feel Phil’s breath catch again, behind him, either— they had actual sneaking to do, goddammit.

“We’re in,” he said unnecessarily, as they crept into the darkened lab. “You keep that light, there’s one in the drawer here so we can split up. Check the other hallway?” 

He suited his actions to his words, retrieving the lab’s flashlight from the junk drawer while Phil checked the back hallway to make sure it was clear. By the time Clint had gotten his flashlight on, Phil was back, giving him a thumbs up.

“At last we are alone,” Clint told him, pairing it with a cheesy grin and a flourish. Phil grinned back, his teeth gleaming in the thin light from the maglite, his face in shadow except where the dim illumination left by the exit sign turned his cheekbones orange.

“Indeed we are, Indy,” he said. “Now tell me what to do.”

“Um,” Clint looked around desperately, because his brain had mutinied and refused to accept any other answer than  _ bend me over that table _ just for a moment.

It was a really fucking inconvenient time for all this not-so-latent lust to thrust itself… uh, to insert itself… to push to the… to come up…

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Clint sighed. 

Phil lifted a confused eyebrow.

_ Pull yourself together, Barton. This is a  _ mission,  _ not a scene. _

“Can you watch the exits?” he said in his out-loud voice. “I’ll get the— wait.”

“What?” Phil looked around, trying to spot what had tripped Clint up.

Clint waved him at one of the high work tables, impatiently. Phil looked over, looked back at him, and walked closer.

“Yeah, that,” he said when Phil had reached the table. “See that?”

“The huge thing covered by a sheet?” Phil asked. “Hard to miss.”

“I know, which is how I know it wasn’t there this morning.”

Phil poked at it.

“Is that odd?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “There were people in the lab nearly all day. Who’d drag that thing out right before the gala tonight, when everyone was gonna be too busy to look at it? Anyway, I think I recognize the shape. Can you take the cover off?”

Phil whipped off the sheet, raised his flashlight, and then froze, open-mouthed, staring at the goat-face that lay beneath.

“Clint,” he whispered.

“I know, freaky, right?” Clint responded, coming over to join him. “Now imagine that in a gloomy bit of the storage room.”

“Ugh,” Phil agreed. “But… more than that. This thing feels familiar. It feels like I should know it.”

“I told you— Dugan’s sketchbook.” Clint pointed out the inscriptions that ran along the sides of the stela, hovering over the circles and lines with his index finger and trying not to examine why he was so disinclined to actually reach out and touch.

“Yes, but the notebook only has those decorations. Writing. Whatever that is. It’s the goat-thing that’s pinging… something. Eh, it’ll come to me if I let it. Why is this even out?” He was still staring like a man entranced.

“I dunno,” Clint told him. “But the entry I’m looking for in the inventory belongs to it.” He ran his free hand over the back of his neck, scrubbing at the short hair, trying to calm himself down. The longer he stared at the goat-face, the more freaked out he got.

“I want to take this with,” Phil said in a rush. “I mean— a picture. I want something to study. But… I don’t think I can get a good angle from here. I’d have to stand  _ on _ the table. Can we move it?”

“God no, not without the wheelie cart, and it’s not only flat, it’s locked in storage. How about a rubbing? We’ve got tracing paper? And charcoal or pencils or shit. They’re… over there, in the cabinet.”

“That’ll work,” Phil said. “You get to work on your inventory, I’ll do this.”

Clint watched him— and his rear— go, then got to work on the cabinet that held the inventory binders. That lock gave easily under his fingers, and Clint had the binders on the table and his digital camera in his hands before Phil had even finished gathering his materials. They worked steadily, Clint taking pictures of each page of the inventory while Phil bent over his task, one knee on a stool and the other foot hooked onto a shelf beneath the table. He was straining to reach all the way across the tablet, and grunting with the effort.

He’d transferred the maglite to his mouth, holding it between his teeth, so that he could use both hands to work on the rubbing.

_ Focus, Clint, focus _ .

_ Snap _ .

Clint frowned down at the resulting picture, which was distinctly blurry, and tried again. As he worked, he kept his good ear towards the outside door. By all rights they should be safe, but just in case, Phil’d set a rattle-trap on the stairs as they came down. It was made of strategically-placed empty cans of Red Bull and wadded-up flyers for danceteria night at the nightclub downtown— half price with a student ID.

Phil was scary good sometimes. It was disturbingly sexy. Clint kept clicking, but found his mind starting to wander. On mature thought, he was fairly certain that Phil  _ had _ been reacting to their groping, for real and true. And had kept on reacting after the need for distraction was gone, reacting to Clint’s back pressed to his front, to Clint’s fingers on the lockpicks.

Hell, those were turn-ons to Clint, too, he couldn’t blame the guy, it was just— Clint paused the camera over a page written in a nearly-indecipherable felt-tipped scrawl he’d come to associate with Elena Magnos— it was just… unexpected. And maybe a little unsettling… and a little gratifying. Also, probably inevitable.

Phil was a red-blooded man with an active sex life, after all, and they’d been awfully domestic for a while now. Shirts off and pants off and kissing all the time… if he really stopped to consider it, Clint thought he could maybe see past signs that Phil’d been giving off that he’d missed.

_ Okay. So he wants to jump my bones. _

_ Probably. Maybe. _

_ Is that a bad thing… or not? _

“Hey, are you about done here? We ought to get going.” 

Clint snapped his head up, to find that Phil had removed the maglite from his mouth and turned, gazing at Clint from his spot at the table, and looking intent. He’d nearly completed the rubbing and there was charcoal smudging the tip of his nose, covering his fingertips, making thumbprints up his broad forearms, where rolled-up sleeves revealed his freckled skin.

Was it a bad thing, that a man that blazingly hot might think Clint wasn’t half bad?

Clint caught his breath as that stupid fondness swelled up in his belly again. Yeah— that was where the problem lay, not in in Phil’s pants. 

“Yeah, we’re nearly done,” Clint said, taking a last picture. “You get that baby sheeted back up.”

With a nod, Phil stuck the maglite back between his teeth, pulled the rubbing off the tablet, and got to work.

As he did, Clint returned the inventory to it’s cabinet and locked everything back up, then went to the cabinet by the exit to replace the flashlight. The lecture would be letting out soon, and people would be passing through the upper atrium on their way to the banquet in the Alumni Center. He didn’t want anyone notice even a dim light coming from the cracks in the doorway. 

Phil was having a hard time with the sheet, but waved off Clint’s offer of help.

“Watch door,” he said around the maglite. 

So Clint did, easing it open a crack to peak out. He looked back once, catching sight of Phil billowing the sheet up and over the tablet, his strong back flexing under the light cotton of his shirt. 

Maybe, Clint decided, as long as he didn’t have to worry about Phil reciprocating this stupid helpless love of his, this whole mutual lust thing wasn’t so terrible. Hell, maybe it would just make Phil  _ more _ suspicious if Clint acted skittish about it. He could even test the waters a little, just to see— 

Phil’s rattle-trap went, and someone cursed on the stairs. 

_ Hell _ , Clint thought, and eased the door shut quickly.

 

####

“Hsst, incoming,” Clint said, backing away from the doors in a half-crouch. There were voices filtering down the stairs from the gallery, cursing about sophomores who couldn’t be bothered to find garbage cans.

Phil whipped his head up to stare at him through the gloom, already folding the tracing paper with the rubbing on it. The flashlight hung heavy from his lips, but he couldn’t spare a hand from his work— the paper was too big and unwieldy and getting it secured was the priority.

Clint clearly saw his dilemma— he scuttled over and grabbed the other end of the flashlight between his lips. Phil bit down while he twisted it off. At Clint’s tug, he released his teeth and let Clint palm the light. Without that little light, Clint was nothing more than a dim form, outlined in the orange from the exit sign at the top of the gallery stairs, as he stuffed the flashlight somewhere about waist-level— probably his pocket—  and reached out to grab Phil’s arm. 

Phil followed in his wake while trying to stuff the tracing paper into his jeans pocket without ruining it. They were halfway across the lab when Clint’s lead slackened, and Phil bashed his hip on a table, dropping the paper. He dropped himself, searching frantically for it, sensing more than hearing Clint turn around searching for him.

Phil knew they were losing precious seconds, but the rubbing couldn’t be left behind. He was half under the lab table and flailing forward when he felt Clint’s hands close on his hips and yank him backwards. Phil bit back any audible reaction to that-- which he was uncomfortably aware was as likely to come out a moan as a protest. Before he could react further, Clint had manhandled Phil upright with an arm around his waist and half-hoisted him over his hip and towards a door. 

“Wet lab,” he hissed into Phil’s ear, breath hot, reaching around him to jiggle the handle.

“Locked lab,” Phil hissed back, and Clint groaned.

“Sorry,” Phil whispered. “Other doors?”

“No exit— except steam tunnels,” Clint hissed back. “Locked, anyway.”

“Worth a try,” Phil sighed, as the handle to the gallery doors started to jiggle. “Fine. Do your worst.”

Clint hadn’t waited for permission; he was already shoving Phil chest-first at the locked door, apologies falling from his lips up until he muffled them in the hollow behind Phil’s ear. Phil arched forward at the electricity in the kiss, hands flailing in a useless attempt to grab something as he slammed up against the frame of the rectangular window. Clint pinned him there, face and belly pressed against the door, and curled up against his back, burying his face in the crook of Phil’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” Phil panted, “at least let me turn aro— oh, oh  _ god _ .”

Clint ignored his protests— and his stupid, traitor moan—  lips making their incendiary way down the side of his neck, one hand coming up from beneath Phil’s bicep to press against the glass pane, cushioning Phil’s cheek. Phil panted for a breath until he could force his hand to obey him, at least long enough to reach back, find the stiff thatch of Clint’s hair, and use it to hold Clint’s head down and keep his lips against Phil’s skin. 

He couldn’t let Clint look up, couldn’t risk him seeing any part of Phil’s face, of the desperation he was sure was showing. 

It was just the cover. It was  _ just the cover _ . Nothing he hadn’t done a half dozen times before. Hell, he’d even done this before with Clint, in a back alley by the Duomo on their second operation together. Maybe that had been, in retrospect, the start of Phil’s undoing, but nevertheless it had just been  _ business.  _ And so was this— and the hard length in Clint’s jeans, pressed up against his ass, was just the maglite. 

Somewhere between the movement of their hips and the way Clint’s other hand was trying to wriggle it’s way between Phil’s hips and the door to get at his fly, Phil forgot entirely about the people trying to get in. And then Clint tensed, and Phil realized the voices in the hallway were silent. 

“Clear?” he mouthed at Clint’s jawline. Clint shrugged, starting to peel himself off of Phil, and Phil tried to be appropriately relieved. “Can we--” he didn’t even get out  _ make it _ before the door was flung open and the fluorescents flickered to life above the doorway.

“--telling you it doesn’t, Tess,” said a baritone voice, hovering between petulance and laughter. 

“Prove it, dumbass,” said probably-Tess, and then a body smacked against another body and— 

“Whoa!” said the baritone. “Holy shit, what are-- Clint?”

“Uh,” Clint said, his breath tickling Phil’s shoulder, “don’t suppose we could convince you we were here to um, loot artifacts or somethin’” 

Phil gave up any pretense at dignity and started snickering. 

“Loot your  _ pants _ , maybe,” he muttered, because why not? The situation was already absurd enough.

Clint looked down at him, scandalized, then a grin started to curve the ends of his lips, despite his clear attempt to fight it down.

“You’re the worst,” he said fondly, between his own half-muffled snickers.

After a moment, Baritone-- who turned out to be a somewhat portly young man wearing Phil-style glasses with much less success-- joined in. Tess, a sturdy young woman dressed up in a cocktail dress and birkenstocks, grinned at Phil as he flipped himself to face them. Clint didn’t noticeably move, so Phil ended up pressed against the maglite from the front, with Clint shaking against him in silent laughter.

“Please tell me you’re the husband,” Tess said.

“Hell yeah,” Clint told her, reaching down to not-so-stealthily grab a handful of Phil’s ass. Phil felt his eyes go wide, and just managed not to squeak.

“Thank god,” said Baritone, “this was already awkward enough. Um… it’s good to meet you, finally. The way Clint talks about you, we thought maybe he was making you up.”

“Making me up?”

“Oh yeah,” Tess said. “You sounded  _ way _ too good to be true. Like a cross between Cary Grant and Anthony Bourdain or something.”

“Huh,” Phil said, finally turning to Clint, who was distinctly blushing, “well that sheds a new light on your fantasy life.”

“If you don’t want me objectifying your cooking, put a shirt on before you start breakfast,” Clint said, which Phil thought was awfully hypocritical of him-- or of Clint Ford, to be accurate. “So, um, anyway, Phil this is Bent and Tess. Tess teaches here and Bent is a grad student, which— we, uh, thought you guys would be at the gala for a lot longer.”

“Lecture ended,” Tess said, “Everyone’s hanging around to greet Secretary Pierce, then heading over for the banquet. We figured we had fifteen minutes to spare. I… take it you didn’t stay for the whole speech.”

Clint gave Phil an elaborate once-over.

“Something came up,” he said, “something urgent. What’re you guys down here for?”

“A bet,” Bent said, then whipped around to waggle a fat finger at Tess. “And you’re going to regret making it.”

“More than the atlatl?” Clint asked, finally peeling away from Phil slightly. 

Tess looked at the floor, biting her lip, as Bent laughed.

“You’re the one who’d regret that most. No projectile weapons this time.”

“Just more old shit?” 

Clint was moving in front of Phil now, screening him while Phil tried to set himself to rights. He glanced down at his pants and sighed— well, at least their excuse would be  _ very believable _ . 

“Not-- damnit, Clint,  _ ancient _ shit, not old shit,” Bent was saying, and oh yes— he was the one who rehydrated poop. He didn’t look like someone who would do that, though Phil wasn’t sure he’d had a real mental image to fit that profile.

“I stand corrected,” Clint grinned. “So it’s a coprolite-based argument? My favorite kind.”

“Don’t think I can’t tell when you’re just trying to butter me up. But yes— that’s what it is. Tess doesn’t think there was any in the test pit over in two-two. I’m about,” he waggled his fingers and headed for a box, “to prove her very, very wrong. Can you get out the dig notebook?”

“C’mon, Bent, they’ve clearly got  _ better _ things to be doing,” Tess said.

“No, it’s fine,” Clint told her, and wandered over to unlock the cabinet and grab the same binder he’d been taking pictures of not ten minutes previously. He even made a pretense of not seeing it at first. As he went, he glanced down briefly, and Phil noticed the corner of his tracing paper sticking out from underneath the lab table.

“This is what you wild and crazy anthro students get up to after hours?” Phil asked, drifting over to the table and leaning on it. Bent smirked at him and thumped down a tupperware tub full of what looked like irregular rocks in plastic bags.

“Yes, that’s us, all right. We’re animals,” he said, and began to dig through the box. Clint brought over the notebook and flipped it open at Bent’s direction, then began helping him pull bagged artifacts from their storage.

####

Phil waited until they were head-down in dry dung, and Tess had turned their direction, before he started to move back towards the corner of the table where he’d left the rubbing. 

He reached a toe out quietly, feeling around underneath the table, hoping to catch a corner. He didn’t dare do more than glance down. It took what seemed like forever, and several false starts, before his toe finally hit something that crumpled.

Very, very carefully, he eased his foot down on the paper and began to draw it back, still ostensibly watching Clint’s rear end. 

“Okay, it cannot be that fascinating watching them get that poop in a group,” Tess said, from next to him.

Phil bit down on his lip, startled that she’d gotten so close. Apparently he’d been watching Clint’s behind more closely than he’d thought.

“Um,” he said. 

Tess followed his gaze and then snorted.

“Oh my god, you two are either terrible or adorable.” She sounded indulgent, at least, not annoyed at them, so Phil played it up.

“I know which one Clint is,” he said. “Can’t speak for myself.”

“I’m guessing it’s the ‘adorable’ one,” Tess replied. “I know I liked him from the minute he brought back our atlatl. You’re a lucky man— I’m guessing you know that.”

“I do,” Phil agreed, trying to shift around the corner of the table with the paper under his foot, so that she wouldn’t see it if she looked down. “I definitely do. Clint is… something else.”

Tess glanced at him.

“At the risk of telling you something you know, have you realized how  _ smart _ he is? I mean, he said he’s never had a chance to do much more than community college, and I don’t know how much he tells you about us. But he’s picking up concepts at a speed that’s a little scary, really. And he’s almost stupidly helpful. Like, he comes in here the first day, nearly gets taken out by an atlatl, hurts his hand, and then decides to help us unload boxes for a few hours. Who the hell does that?”

“Clint does,” Phil shrugged. “That’s just… him. I’ve often wondered if he understands half of how amazing he is.”

“Mm, I bet you tell him though,” Tess said. She was still watching them, so Phil started to bend down.

“I try,” he agreed. “Probably not enough.”

And that, he realized, was the truth. He hadn’t told Clint that enough at SHIELD, too afraid of betraying his weakness. He thought he was getting better at it, here at Driftless, but now that Tess had brought it up, Phil decided it was probably impossible to tell Clint as often as he deserved to hear it.

And… not really his place, not as Phil Coulson.

Perhaps, if he was wallowing anyway, he ought to get more licks in as Phillip Moore. Just while he could.

“They’ve got to be done soon,” Phil said, hoping he sounded plaintive and pining and disturbed at how little effort it took.

“I’ll check,” Tess said, and wandered over.

Phil ducked down like a flash, retrieved the rubbing, and stuffed it in his pants pocket. As he straightened up, though, he hit his head on the corner of the table— hard.

“Ow!” he yelped, and dropped to his hands and knees. “Ow,  _ shit _ .”

His vision blurred out, hazed and red for just a moment.

When it cleared, Clint was crouching before him, one hand covering his on the back of his head, and saying his name over and over.

“I’m okay,” Phil managed. “I’m okay.”

“Sure?” Clint asked, reaching out to put his other hand on Phil’s shoulder.

Unfortunately, his other hand wasn’t free. He was holding some kind of lumpy rock that— 

That probably wasn’t a rock.

Phil flinched backwards.

“Put the poop down first, please,” he said.

Clint stared at the specimen in his hand for a moment, then laughed.

“Right, yeah we—”

“What are you doing in here?” Dr. Burgoyne’s voice rang out. “You should be on your way to the banquet.”

Phil felt more than saw Clint stretching upwards to see her, and then freeze. He was still bent low enough that he probably wasn’t visible under the table.

“Dr. Burgoyne! Um,” Bent’s stool creaked, so he was likely turning around. “And Secretary Pierce. I. Um. Good evening. Great lecture, sir, especially the bit about Rio—”

Pierce? Here? Phil checked his sightlines, but couldn’t see anyone’s feet. 

“Thank you,” a man was saying, and yes, that was Pierce’s voice all right, lightly amused. “I wasn’t sure it was appropriate for the audience, but if you have a story like that, it’s hard not to tell it. Anyway, Miranda wouldn’t let me use any of the stories with her in them— or Merlin. For that, you have to come see me at the banquet.”

“I… well, sure, yeah, I’d like that,” Bent said. 

“Which is where you and Tesla should be,” Burgoyne reiterated. “What’s going on?”

“Oh,” Tess chimed in, “Bent and I just realized we might have mis-indexed some of the specimens we’d had out for lab. He and Clint and Phil and I were just putting them away.”

“’Clint?’ ‘Phil?’” Burgoyne’s voice was sharp, accusing, and Phil felt Clint’s hand tremble on his back.

“Sorry about that,” Clint said, straightening up. “Phil was going after a piece of s— specimen— that had rolled off the table, and he hit his head. I don’t think anything’s broken, but he’s still a bit stunned.”

“Mr. Ford.”

It didn’t seem like it was supposed to be the end of the sentence, but Burgoyne’s pause after Clint’s name just dragged on. Apparently she couldn’t think of anything to say. Clint turned slightly. It put his crotch right at Phil’s eye level, and Phil felt his soul wither further. The maglite was clearly visible in his pocket, and it was doing things to Phil it really shouldn’t be doing.

Especially not right now, with their cover so thin it could get blown at any moment. In fact, Clint’s might be getting blown right now. This love thing was wildly out of hand.

“Secretary Pierce,” Clint said, “that was a great speech.” 

Even from his voice, Phil could tell Clint had turned on the Just A Pretty Face persona. Phil tried to remember if Pierce had ever seen Clint up close. He would’ve seen his file because of the Black Widow fiasco, of course— but if he’d never interacted personally with Clint, maybe he wouldn’t make the connection.

“Thank you, too,” Pierce told him, “I’m glad to hear it. What did you like about it?”

“Uh, so, I was in Iraq in ‘05, so the bit you talked about with the act, the antiquities act? That. It was, um, it took me back.”

Oh, nice. Phil reached out and patted Clint’s shoe in what he hoped Clint could tell was approval. He ignored the way his hand twitched, trying to move higher and pat something more intimate.

“Oof, I hope not in a bad way.” 

Something shuffled— was that Pierce starting to move in their direction? If he came around the table, he’d see Phil— at least he’d see Phil’s behind. While it was drastically unlikely Pierce would recognize his rear view, Phil was going to have to sit up  _ sometime.  _

“No,” Clint started saying, but was interrupted by Burgoyne, who’d apparently lost her patience.

“Alexander, we need to get over to the alumni hall. We’ll come back after, if that’s all right.”

“Always, Miranda,” Pierce said. “Shall we?”

The footsteps retreated up the stairs.

“Ow,” Phil said faintly, once he was sure the coast was clear, and collapsed onto his back. “Just ow.”

Clint looked down, both horror and relief showing on his face for a moment before he turned it into the sympathetic amusement appropriate for Clint Ford reacting to Phillip Moore.

“Come on old man,” he sighed, “let’s get you up.”

 

####

Clint would have preferred to wait until Tess and Bent were gone before he and Phil left, so that they could do a last scan of the room and make sure they hadn’t left traces of their earlier sneaking. He’d also have preferred a little more time before having to bring himself and Phil out in public, just to settle his mind.

He knew he was the one who’d initiated their make-out session, so he didn’t have a right to complain about the effects. But  _ goddamn _ , even the dick-shriveling appearances of Bent and then Burgoyne—  _ and Alexander Pierce _ — couldn’t entirely erase the heat that’d shot up his spine.

It hadn’t been that way before— not that they’d had to get all up on each other’s crotches and grind for the cover before tonight. But they’d had to do it at least once before Driftless, and he didn’t remember coming away from that with a desperate and unyielding need to bite Phil on the earlobe or shove his hands down the front of his pants and hook thumbs onto his pelvis.

To name a few acts Clint shouldn’t be thinking about at  _ all _ at the moment.

Also. Not for nothing. He didn’t think he remembered knowing Phil was  _ quite that big  _ before tonight, and he’d seen the guy in boxers. Yeah, sure, everyone knew Coulson was packing, but apparently Phil was a grower, and that was new and frankly mind-blowing information. 

“Hey Clint,” Bent said, “can you bring that crap over here? I want to pack up— Burgoyne’s right, we need to get to the banquet.”

Clint whipped his head up, realizing abruptly that he’d been focusing on the coprolite still on his hand. (Or not focusing on it, his eyes seemed to have gone a little blurry there for a moment.) 

“Yeah, sure,” he said, moving around the table and realizing as he did that he might need some cover.

Bent took the specimen from his hand without looking down— very  _ carefully _ without looking down— and snorted.

“I take it you’re not coming to the banquet?”

“We’d meant to,” Clint lied, “but you know how it is. Something came up.”

From the corner where she was putting away the inventory binder, Clint heard Tess choke on air.

“Yeah, yeah. Phil, are you all right? That sounded like a bad hit.” Bent turned his attention over Clint’s shoulder, to where Phil was standing up, using the table for support.

“I’m fine,” Phil said. “But, um, maybe Clint had better take me home and take a closer look.” His voice had gone from awkward to suggestive between one word and the next.

_ Hell yes _ , Clint’s crotch said.  _ Take me home _ .

Clint sighed and looked down. It was going to be one extra long shower tonight, and he was getting really damn tired of those. And dangerously distracted— with Phil down there on his knees, head right near zipper-level, it’d been nearly impossible for Clint to concentrate on Pierce. He thought he’d pulled it off; Pierce’d never seen him up close except once just after he’d brought Nat in, and Clint’s face had been bruised enough at that point he defied anyone to recognize him again. But this wasn’t the first time Phil’d had him tied up in knots.

He took Phil’s hand, waved goodbye to Tess and Bent, and let himself be led towards the stairs.

Love was love, he didn’t think there was much he could do about that, but there had to be  _ something _ he could do to take the edge off.

Clint’s crotch told him that it could think of several things that might work, and Clint refrained from punching himself in the dick only by an effort of will. Phil’d have to agree to those kinds of things, he told himself. And Phil might be— definitely was— getting horny too, but that didn’t mean he was going to be led by his dick all the way into Clint’s ass.

If Clint was even desperate enough to ask. 

“Fuck,” Phil hissed, stopping short at the bottom of the stairs, and Clint ran straight into his backside.

It took him a minute to realize why Phil was staring upwards.

Burgoyne and Pierce were still there, just out of sight at the top of the stairs, talking low. Their voices were drifting downwards, though Clint could only catch a few words in the general murmur.

“… anxious to see it… Merlin said… unique….”

“… of course, of course… you’ll find it… under wraps, of course….”

“We can’t wait, Tess and Bent’ll think it’s weird if they see us still here,” Clint hissed into Phil’s ear. Phil nodded, and Clint was close enough to see his adam’s apple bob as he gulped.

“I don’t think we have a choice, then,” he said.

He turned, shoved his hand deep in Clint’s back pocket, and his tongue in Clint’s mouth, doing his best to hide his face.

Clint felt himself melt and flailed about until he managed to grab Phil’s shoulder to keep himself upright. Phil reached out blindly with his free hand, found the hand rail, and began to lead them both up the stairs, necking all the way.

The things Clint endured for SHIELD— Director Fury had  _ no _ fucking idea. 

####

Their undoing, in retrospect, was that one final flourish, that moment Clint pressed Phil up against the outer door just briefly and rolled against him for an impatient kiss. Phil stopped thinking about whether Clint’s coup de grace was believable to the people inside the building or whether Pierce had recognized him on the way out. He was too busy realizing that wasn’t a maglite in Clint’s pants after all— well, not  _ only _ a maglite. 

Also, there was no way Clint was  _ not _ going to have realized that Phil was just as turned on as he was.

And, worst of all, they were all alone in the dark, with no one to walk in and distract them from each other.

He could, he supposed, when Clint pulled back and stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, have blamed it all on proximity. 

Mechanics.

Instinct.

Any of the above would work, if he wanted to save face for them both. 

But… did he?

The question brought Phil up short, and he got stuck staring back at Clint, his own parted lips mirroring Clint’s, for too long. The moment for denial passed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find any other words. Not that Clint gave him much time— he turned abruptly on his heel and started dragging them both along down the path. Phil stumbled along in his wake, their hands still linked as they left the broad quad behind for the tree-lined pathway home.

“Smuggling antiquities in your pants?” Clint asked finally, glancing down, his gaze skittering away from Phil’s pants to land on the pathway. For a minute, Phil was tempted to go with it, let the joke cover up the reality of the situation and move them both on. But he couldn’t miss that it was a question, not a statement— not Clint covering for himself, Clint offering Phil cover.

“Am I?” Phil asked, instead of taking the offer, and Clint’s hand twitched in his, tightening for a moment. 

Clint was still panting, still restless, and that was  _ still _ not a maglite pressing against the fly of his jeans. They were at least five minutes down the path, but that seemed to have only ratcheted the tension between them up. Phil’s brain kept trying to make sense of it, form a plan of action, but all the oxygen seemed to be in use elsewhere. 

Clint’s laugh was airless, and the line of his neck as he threw his head back was almost unendurably biteable.

“It’s something,” Clint said, turning to look at Phil, and not bothering to hide the heat in his gaze. “It’s… I thought— I  _ knew _ — it would be something else. I can’t— ” he sounded helpless.

“It’s natural,” Phil hastened to assure him. “I mean it. Only natural given everything.”

_ Yes _ , his brain said, latching on to the bullshit tumbling out of his mouth.  _ Yes, that’s the ticket.  _ Phil wasn’t sure he believed his brain, but he kept going anyway, largely because he couldn’t stop, now that he’d started.

“I mean think about it; we’ve been living together for weeks, acting intimate with each other all the time— and then that, what we just did, I— I mean, anyone would’ve… would’ve gotten…” he trailed off, realizing he was admitting to far more than was called for. 

But Clint was there for him, unfortunately, nodding vigorously.

“Hard, yeah. Fuck, sleeping together, kissing, the way you look in the morning with the rumpled— what I mean is,” he caught himself suddenly, “you’re fucking gorgeous, you know this.”

“I’m— ‘gorgeous’ is not what—” 

“No don’t even,” Clint told him, adamant. “You’re like six kinds of sex fantasy got together and had an orgy and produced an even sexier baby fantasy.”

“I’m really not,” Phil tried, though he thought his startled laughter might have undermined his point a bit. Clint whipped around in front of him and poked his chest, all the while walking them backwards.

“Are. And you  _ know _ it, Phil. Aren’t you the one who told me you hook up at, like, every convention you’ve ever been at?”

“Clearly a mistake on my part,” Phil drawled— tried to drawl. It came out more like a croak. He should have known that tree-branch conversation would come back to bite him on the ass. “And I’m pretty sure that just means I’m easy.”

Clint snorted.

“Yeah no,” he said, letting his eyes drift back down Phil’s body to where Phil’s own interest was still too appallingly clear and not looking like it was going to soften up anytime soon. “No I don’t think that’s the case. I mean, I don’t know what your standards are, but I can’t believe this is the first time someone’s called you gorgeous.”

It wasn’t, as it happened. It was just the first time it hadn’t felt like a line. Clint must have seen Phil’s admission in his face, because he barked a laugh and pointed at him.

“See. I knew it. So. To recap: you’re gorgeous.  _ I’m _ not bad-looking myself—”

“— and so modest,” Phil added, though he couldn’t keep himself from doing his own quick sweep of the situation. Clint had criminally under-rated himself.

“I’m as well aware of my assets as any competent SHIELD agent, thank you,” Clint said, “especially since I’ve been deploying them right, left, and center in an attempt to seduce this entire campus on behalf of SHIELD— uh, so to speak. Not to mention using them to try and convince everyone we’re married. So if you think about it, it only makes sense you got, uh… caught in the cross-fire.”

“The cross-fire?” Phil asked, to keep from saying  _ if only that was all. _

“The sexy cross-fire,” Clint waggled his eyebrows. He was still walking backwards, one hand in Phil’s and the other pressed to Phil’s chest, and it was beginning to be more like a prolonged tango than a stroll. Phil bit his lip, gave momentary consideration to one last attempt to deny anything, and gave it up.

He clearly wouldn’t be fooling Clint, so why try to fool himse lf.

“I reject the ridiculous metaphor,” he said, resisting the urge to kiss the glare off of Clint’s face, “but I admit it’s gotten… tense… lately. I wasn’t sure if you were, uh—”

“Feeling it too? Man, you’re lucky you take long runs, or you’d’ve seen just how much I’ve been feeling it,” Clint sighed. His thumb rubbed restlessly over Phil’s sternum. 

“Look,” he said finally, watching his own hand. Then he stopped, and they walked on for a few more paces, into and out of the shadow of more trees.

“Clint?” Phil asked, hoping he didn’t sound as vulnerable as he felt.

Clint looked up at him. There was something vulnerable in his own gaze for a moment, something that matched what Phil felt so well it hurt, before he bit his lip, gave a nod, and said:

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Phil repeated.

“Yeah, why not. Why not  _ do _ something about it? I mean— it’s not gonna go  _ away _ otherwise, right? We’re both grown men. We can handle a little sex that’s… that’s just that, right? We know the drill. And I gotta tell you, it’s getting dangerous how much I keep thinking about your ass in the wrong places— uh, when I’m in the wrong places, not when your ass is… arg, you know what I mean.”

“Fingers,” Phil said promptly by way of agreement, then slapped a hand over his mouth, mortified.

Clint looked at Phil’s fingers, then down at his own, and his face changed slowly from confused to sly. 

“Is that so?” he asked, an inviting grin starting to grow at the corner of his lips. “I could work with that. So… unless you want to go home and flip to see who get the shower and who gets the futon and the sock....”

For the record, Phil should have taken the sock. He had a moment of absolute clarity when he saw it all playing out in his mind and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his only salvation lay in the sock. 

And then Clint bit his goddamn lip again, and his gaze turned nervous. Phil felt so full of love that he nearly choked. If he’d been half the man Clint thought he was, he would have taken Clint to bed ages ago— after their second mission, maybe— and done something about his predilection for Clint before it ever turned into this hopeless warmth. 

Maybe it  _ was _ being exacerbated by proximity. Maybe it wasn’t too late to fuck Clint out of his system. He would probably still love Clint, but he might not be punch-drunk with lust anymore. There was only so much sex two people could have, in Phil’s experience, before there wasn’t a lot of mystery left. So maybe it could work— and maybe Clint would get Phil out of  _ his _ system and stop looking at him like he was a club sandwich and Clint was on a desert island. 

At any rate, it was worth a shot— what was the worst that could happen?

“I’d rather go home and see whether that wooden screen will hold a grown man’s weight,” Phil found himself growling.

Clint’s mouth dropped open and he whimpered.

“Good  _ heavens _ , Mr. Moore,” he said when he recovered, “is that any way to talk to your husband?”

“Yes,” Phil told him, and finally let himself move in for what he felt was a  _ very _ well-deserved kiss.

Clint was leaning in, too. They met in a rush that was nearly a disaster of teeth and bruising-- but by luck or grace they managed to turn it just right.

Kissing Clint-- Clint  _ Barton _ , not Clint Ford-- was dangerously good. He was open and warm and ardent, and maybe it wasn’t the most technically difficult kiss Phil had ever had, it didn’t matter; Clint was putting every ounce of his will into it. It was overwhelmingly good, and impossible not to reciprocate.

The kiss turned into a whole series— neither of them seemed able to pull away long enough to get moving. Clint did stumble backwards a few steps as Phil pressed forward, before catching on and letting Phil get his arms around Clint’s waist. Phil’s followed up his advantage promptly by digging his hands under Clint’s shirt and splaying his fingers over the smooth skin at the small of his back. Clint’s own hands clutched Phil’s face, shifting restlessly, and their hips passed out of their control, rocking against each other.

Any fleeting notion Phil had maybe had about trying to hold back his desperation long enough to get them home melted under the repeated applications of Clint’s tongue at the corners of his lips. After all, Clint was matching him moan for moan, like he wanted it just as much as Phil did, like he’d been just as desperate for just as long— no one could have expected him to hold back in the face of that. Anyway, clearly holding off hadn’t been good for either of them. Time to try the other… try the opposite-- god, Clint’s knee had found its way between Phil’s thighs, and the pressure was almost too-- 

Phil was about a half second and two more inches of naked Clint from just tumbling them both to the asphalt, when something caught in the periphery of his vision. Clint saw it too, apparently, given how they both froze.

There was a young woman coming along the path—  _ attempting _ to come along the path— and staring at them with huge eyes and both her hands pressed to her lips.

“Sorry--” she said, seeing them see her. “Sorry, sorry, I shoul--”

“No, no, uh sorry,” Clint reassured her, finding his voice slightly before Phil (although it appeared to have rolled around in a gravel pit), “we shouldn’t have--”

Phil gave his own apologies too as she scampered past them. It was only as she rounded a bend that he realized he’d seen her before— twice in fact—  standing in daylilies and staring at Clint’s boxer-clad behind.

Well then, he wouldn’t feel  _ quite _ so bad; she’d understand the compulsion.

“We should go home,” he whispered against Clint’s ear as he finished nibbling at it.

“Yes,” Clint gasped, “yes we should.”

And eventually, by fits and starts, they even made it there, Clint pulling away from Phil just long enough to unlock the front door before Phil pushed him inside and slammed the door behind them.

####

Both of their shirts were off by the time the front door closed behind them. Clint’s shirt hadn’t even made it inside; they’d find it the next day draped over their front doorknob. Phil had started to work at the front of Clint’s pants the minute Clint leaned back to turn the lock. His knuckles brushed Clint’s belly as he worked and if he didn’t stop fiddling, Clint was going to go off right there— which would be a crying shame. He had to do something, fast. 

Clint looked around wildly, and spotted the wooden screen that concealed the stairway. Well, Phil _had_ _said,_ hadn’t he? He ran his hands up Phil’s biceps— just as clutchable as he’d thought they’d be— and pushed, driving Phil back against the screen. Phil’s hands flew up reflexively as he hit, breaking his grasp on Clint’s fly just in the nick of time.

“What?” Phil gasped, wild-eyed. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint panted, though he wasn’t, “you didn’t specify  _ which _ grown man you wanted up against the screen.” 

“No that’s— good initiative,” Phil said, nodding hard. Then he grabbed Clint and dragged him forward, muttering just before their lips met, “well done.”

He had, Clint thought dazedly as Phil kissed the living daylights out of him, said nearly the same words their last mission but one, though not in quite the same tone of voice. Or with a hand clutching Clint’s hair as a reward for a job well done. Dimly, Clint wondered if SHIELD’d ever considered makeouts with Phil as a performance incentive— then abandoned the thought as Phil growled and shifted, grinding his hips hard against Clint’s.

Apparently Phil wasn’t interested in slowing down and drawing it out— which was good, because neither was Clint. For different reasons, most likely; Phil didn’t have to worry that if he slowed down, his lust would be overwhelmed in a sticky tide of love. No,  _ that  _ was all Clint—  and he really needed to stop thinking about it, or it would happen no matter how hard he was— or how hard Phil was. 

Actually, he needed to stop thinking at all and get Phil’s pants off instead— and maybe his own, while he was at it. Phil, being Phil and therefore spookily good at picking up what Clint was putting down, grabbed Clint’s fly and got to work helping with the disenpantsing process.

When they finally both had their pants pooled on the floor, Phil reached backwards towards the screen. He wrapped his hands around two of the slats and tugged, testing them—  then grabbed on tight and lifted. His legs came free of the puddle of pant on the floor, and he wrapped them both around Clint’s waist.

“Holy fuck, Phil,” Clint breathed, incapable of anything other than staring at Phil in awe for a moment.

The wood creaked, and Phil shot a startled glance behind him.

“Dunno if this is gonna hold,” he said, adjusting his grip. 

“It will if I hold you,” Clint growled.

He grabbed Phil’s thighs, hoisting him higher and rolling against him at the same time, pressing him further back against the slats. Phil threw his head back, groaning low in his throat as his dick rubbed hard against Clint’s belly with the motion. His thighs trembled— or maybe that was Clint’s hands shaking. 

Phil’s weight straining Clint’s arms, the girth of his thighs around Clint’s waist, the rasp of his body hair against all Clint’s already-electric skin, were nearly too much for Clint to bear. Each little shift of his hands, his thighs, as he settled himself against Clint were as arousing as if he were thrusting hard. They were pressed so close they were beginning to breathe in tandem, one inhaling as the other exhaled. Clint tipped forward and kissed Phil again, nipping until he opened up then deepening the kiss as he rolled his hips harder, helpless to hold back.

Phil rocked with him, his arms flexing to the rhythm they set up, the wood creaking in counterpoint as he braced against it. As their pace picked up their kisses lessened and turned into nips and little swoops. Their sweat eased the slide of their bodies against each other, Clint’s dick rubbing against Phil’s balls. Clint thought he’d never been so turned on in his life; his arms shook and his thighs were beginning to ache but the burn in his muscles was only intensifying the pleasure. Phil’s thighs were wide and strong, pulling Clint in and holding him, and each kiss, each roll of his hips demanded an equal return. 

Even the awkward moment when Clint, adjusting his grip, nearly dropped Phil, didn’t break the spiraling desperation—  Phil’s laughter vibrated straight into Clint’s core. 

“Need a better grip?” Phil panted, his eyes bright and wide, his voice light despite the beads of sweat standing high on his forehead.

“... show you a better grip,” Clint mumbled, and slid his hands down until they were cupping Phil’s ass, adjusting him higher, changing the angle so that their dicks were aligned, rubbing against each other with each roll. One of them shuddered as they caught. Clint wasn’t sure whether it was Phil or him— and perhaps it didn’t matter. They were nearly one organism now, two-bodied but with a single will, all of their combined energy bent on spiraling towards release.

And then Clint’s fingers, splaying wide, found their way between Phil’s cheeks and hit a spot that made Phil buck and throw his head back against the slats, a ragged shout torn from his throat. Oh, right, Phil had mentioned something about fingers, earlier. Apparently he hadn’t been lying. What else had he liked, earlier? 

Ah. Ah, yes. Clint buried against Phil’s shoulder and lipped at the sensitive skin of his neck, letting Phil’s sweat dissolve on his tongue. As his hands kept working, exploring, Phil’s hips shook and finally he groaned.

“Don’... if I… when I… Clint, I won’t—” 

Clint nipped at his pulse point, just to hear him shout again— which he did— and buck— which he also did-and… freeze? Instinctively, Clint froze too, just in time to hear a second wooden  _ crack _ . He looked up at Phil’s white-knuckled grip on the slats just as Phil did.

“Shit,” he said, watching Phil’s fingers flex.

“Yeah,” Phil breathed, then looked beyond Clint, seemingly searching for something. “Futon?” 

Clint glanced over, tested Phil’s weight, and decided he could handle it for a short trip.

“Futon,” he confirmed. “Let go.”

He gave Phil a moment to loosen his grip before he spun them both around, walked two steps, and flung them both down on the futon. 

The metal creaked at Phil hit the mattress and Clint came down on top of him, but Clint was too busy trying to fit his knees on it to care. He finally settled on one leg on, one off, braced, and kissed Phil again as he tried to rebuild their rhythm. Phil wrapped his arms around Clint’s shoulders to give himself better traction and matched Clint thrust for thrust, hips arching. Once settled, Clint let his fingers drift until they were back between the cheeks of Phil’s ass, pressing and rubbing, making Phil thrash beneath him with each stroke over his rim.

Finally, Phil flung out a hand and strained, scrambling to reach the coffee table. Clint looked over just in time to see him open the remote drawer and palm something within it.

“Whuzzat?” Clint asked, as Phil passed the thing over his back and fumbled at it with both hands. His hips were still rocking in rhythm and his thighs were still holding Clint to him and it made it really hard for Clint to form a coherent thought, much less sentence. 

“Lube,” Phil said shortly, and dropped his far hand down between them.

“Lube?” Clint asked, mind gone momentarily blank. What in the— oh. Yes. Lube. That thing that you used to make you more slippery—  “want lube.”

He removed his hand from Phil’s ass long enough to grab the bottle from the floor where Phil’d dropped it. As he fumbled the flip top open and tipped some onto his fingers, it dimly occurred to him that their living room was not, so far as he knew, lube’s natural habitat. But then he was distracted, again, by the way Phil opened up to him when his fingers returned to their work, letting him slip his first knuckle inside. It provided whole new universes of sensation, Phil hot and silky and clenching tight around his knuckle, his rim catching with each thrust, and his voice gone high and helpless.

Lost as he sounded, he still had enough coordination to work his own slicked hand down between their bellies and take both of them in hand. He pulled fitfully, in a gentle counter-rhythm to their thrusts. The moan that pulled from Clint’s throat was probably not entirely human, but Clint was past caring. He felt his hips speed up against his will, his entire body beginning to tighten and lock and shiver, as he rutted madly into Phil’s hand. 

_ Any minute now _ ,  _ any minute.  _ Part of him wanted it so desperately, but another part— a tiny, desperate part— never wanted to stop, to have to put distance back between his body and Phil’s. Sadly, Clint wasn’t superhuman, and neither was his dick. He was gonna have to come, and come soon. He made one last, desperate, attempt to bring Phil over the edge before him, digging his finger in deeper, hoping to get to see the look on Phil’s face when he came.

It backfired spectacularly as Phil arched off the futon, crying Clint’s name, and that was  _ it _ . Clint broke apart, toes curling and vision spotting as he came, his entire body shaking and shaking and shaking and his voice sobbing out of him along with everything else. Midway through, Phil’s own release hit, and he shook along with Clint. Clint felt warmth against his belly joining sweat and lube, as they both came in long spurts. He wasn’t surprised to find himself slipping just a little in the mess as he finally collapsed against Phil.

They didn’t speak— not that Clint  _ could _ have spoken, even if he’d wanted to. They just lay tangled together, panting and growing sticky, and Clint tried to memorize the feel of sweaty chest hair against his cheek. After a while, their breathing slowed and the air conditioner kicked in, raising prickles on their damp skin. Clint wondered idly when Phil would grow tired of the weight and heat on top of him, but Phil seemed content to keep on stroking his back weakly as he lay with his eyes closed and his knees still bracketing Clint. When he did move, it was to tilt his head to the side and dart a glance at the window.

“Oh thank god,” he sighed, “we did remember to close the curtains earlier.” 

“Would’ve been a hell of a show if we hadn’t,” Clint replied, laughing weakly at the thought.

“Cover or no, that is  _ not _ something I wanted an audience for,” Phil agreed. 

It warmed something in Clint’s sad, pathetic heart that Phil was relieved they’d been private. That he, too, regarded this as just theirs, just Clint and Phil, not their covers, even if it was just a release of tension to him.

“Wait,” Clint said, as his brain finally got all the way caught up to events, “why was there lube in the coffee table? What—  were you—?” 

Phil shook his head weakly.

“Not me. Jasper.”

“ _ Jasper?”  _ Clint squeaked. “What would— why would he— he knew we weren’t gonna need lube.” Despite the fact that they  _ had _ needed it. But surely Jasper Sitwell couldn’t have expected that— could he?

“Don’t look at me— ‘m not defending it!” Phil was still short of breath— probably from the rather large man collapsed on top of him— and he paused to suck in air. “Said Clint Ford ‘n’ Phil Moore’d have it… humored him… forgot till now. ‘S just… veri…” He trailed off as Clint mumbled 

“Verisimilitude.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, “that.” 

Clint laid his head on Phil’s shoulder and eyed the gooey bottle skeptically. There was, he decided, entirely too much of that going around lately. It was getting disturbingly hard to tell the cover from the real thing.

Oh well— even if his own heart was incapable of keeping them safe, at least he knew Phil would have things well in hand. He closed his eyes for a moment to drift, comforted by that thought. It wasn’t really comfy enough, tangled together, to go to sleep, and eventually Phil would want to be able to breathe. but surely… just for a moment….

Clint shifted, and Phil shifted beneath him, curving into a true cuddle.

He heard Phil sigh, long and content and maybe a little lost.

And then, with an agonized creak, the futon gave way and they both toppled to the floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: being stuck in enclosed spaces, and a brief description of dead bodies. (Not new ones.)
> 
> Next time on Driftless: Phil and Clint wait to see if there will be fallout from, well, everything. Spoiler: of course there will, but maybe not how they expect. We're moving to a five-week posting schedule, so look for the next chapter to post April 28 or 29.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the mystery front, Clint and Phil play a waiting game. They're trying to do that with their interpersonal relationship, too. Trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's late, guys-- it's late because it's extra-long, though! And chock full of angst, fluff, and chutney. Enjoy!
> 
> For those of you who fade to black when the action goes to E, you'll want to stop at the hash marks just after the fireworks. It will be very obvious. While I usually try to make the emotional arc apparent without the sex scenes being necessary, I completely failed this time. Please go to the end notes for a summary of what happens.

Clint’s ass was way too warm for a summer morning— especially in a room with indifferent air conditioning. That was Phil’s first coherent thought, even before opening his eyes, on waking up. 

He half-remembered fitful dreams of deserts and sunshine and enigmatic meetings in sandy corners with Alexander Pierce, who kept unbuttoning his shirt— his, Phil’s, not his, Pierce’s. All in all, Phil was glad to wake up, snorting into full consciousness after dream-Pierce’s fingers had dipped inside his collar to stroke.

Phil’s second coherent thought was aggravation at Clint, both because he suspected the heat radiating from Clint’s behind of causing his dream, and because Clint had had the nerve  _ not _ to have shown up in his sex dream. It seemed so unfair: Clint had been the feature of many of Phil’s past dreams, and now Phil actually had license to dream about him— so why the hell would dream-Clint choose now to abandon Phil to the mercies of  _ Alexander Pierce _ of all people? 

The third coherent thought Phil had, following rapidly on the second, was stunned wonder. He’d _ had sex  _ with Clint Barton last night. It had been  _ such good sex _ , too. Phil didn’t take his reputation half as seriously as people took it for him, but he had to admit his experience was wide, varied, and on the whole he would have said pretty high quality. And Clint had ranked right up there with the Interpol agent with a gymnast past and the MI-5 agent with willing friends. Not… not that Phil was in a habit of ranking anyone, because he wasn’t, but he needed  _ some _ way to put what had happened last night into context. Well, into a context that wasn’t all about how he was more in love with Clint every day, how Clint’s ability to hoist him against a wall— or screen— was definitely not making him less admirable, and how Clint had managed to do something no one else had done with Phil in years.

Because Clint was still in his bed, his ass touching Phil’s ass. No, he was still in  _ their _ bed, with his ass touching Phil’s.  _ Their _ bed, the both of them, that they both slept in because they were fake married. 

He’d managed to  _ spend the night _ afterwards. They were going to have a morning after. 

Phil groaned, the sound coming out choked because of his C-PAP mask. 

It did kind of complicate his usual M.O.

It wasn’t that Phil was philosophically opposed to morning afters; in his experience as long as everyone had come into the encounter with the right expectations, mornings-after weren’t inherently awkward. But even before he’d admitted to himself that he snored like a camel with a head cold (the comparison wasn’t his own) he’d known that some people found him hard to sleep with. After a few too many times being kicked out of bed at two AM, he’d gotten into the habit of discreetly leaving his companions to their own devices— and sheets. Over the years, he’d refined his SOP until it was nearly high art: ten minutes of cuddling followed by apologetically excusing himself to the bathroom, and— after dressing, usually— out the door. Everyone felt appreciated, no one got woken up by snoring. Anyway, leaving meant never having to sleep in the wet spot. 

After he’d gotten the C-PAP, sleepovers in his room were theoretically back on the table, except for one tiny problem: C-PAP masks were just not sexy. Or subtle. Or especially portable— he carried a less-effective in-nose substitute in the field. In truth, the first person ever to see him with one was Clint himself. 

Phil’s breaths started to come just a little short as he lay frozen and curled on his own side of the bed, staring aimlessly at the dingy faux-wood paneling on the far wall, as the reality of the situation sunk in: he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. Somehow, he was supposed to navigate an entire morning with Clint, while pretending to be married to him, but without making it weird between them or admitting that what he really wanted was just to skip the morning altogether in favor of banging Clint again.

Wait— was that what he wanted?

Phil froze. He’d been so caught up in his head that he hadn’t even checked to see if today’s Clint, drooling on his pillow (he always did), was still as edible as yesterday’s Clint, pre-sex Clint, had been. After consideration, Phil stretched a cautious leg out behind him, letting his heel brush the back of Clint’s calf. Firm, warm skin,  the soft rasp of leg hair, stretch of a tendon— and there went Phil’s dick, twitching at even that miserable scrap of intentional contact. Apparently last night hadn’t managed to inoculate Phil against Clint’s body in the slightest.

In that case, it would probably be a good idea for Phil to be up and out of bed before Clint could wake up and be an active temptation. Anyway, Phil was up before Clint most days, so maybe he could play it off that way. Awkward mornings-after with Clint Barton had to take a back seat to normal daily routines with Clint Ford as a fake husband. Right? Surely Clint wouldn’t feel abandoned or taken for granted? 

Of course he wouldn’t; Phil would be coming home to him and he knew it. So why did it feel like a cop-out?

“Arg,” Phil said out loud, then nearly choked. Damn mask. 

Time to stop thinking and just  _ get up _ and take himself to the shower, before he lost his nerve. He could plot a further course of action from there. 

Phil slapped the button on his C-PAP that stopped the flow of air, then yanked off his mask, nearly throwing it onto the nightstand. Using the momentum, he pushed himself upright and off the bed— too fast. So fast his head went light and he turned to brace himself on the mattress for a moment. 

And there was Clint, or rather, there was Clint’s back, the curve of it still broad and tanned, but marked now with a few faint pink-red lines that trailed from shoulderblade to tailbone. Phil didn’t even remember scratching him, but clearly— he shook his head and jerked it up, only to be caught by Clint’s reflection in the alcove mirror.

He looked so young, was the thing. All the little lines his face creased itself into by day were gone, and a faint smile curved his lips, disappearing into the hand that was tucked under his cheek. (And yes, he was still drooling just a little and it still was cuter than it should be.) His hair was going to be a riot when he woke up; it was already puffing like a dandelion. As Phil watched helplessly, Clint shifted a little, wriggling his hips further into the mattress, and the cotton blanket slipped dangerously low on his pelvis. 

If Clint opened his eyes now, there would be nothing for it but to fall back into bed and kiss him senseless.

“Hrmphgl,” Clint said, and shifted more.

Phil turned on his heel and fled for the safety of the bathroom.

####

Warmth finally woke Clint up, the sun creeping in the window bringing summer heat with it even this early in the morning. He drifted for a moment, eyes closed, trying to decide whether to surface or dive back down into dreams. Every inch of him felt slack, so relaxed he was practically a part of the mattress, and the silence of the empty room felt friendly.

The other side of the bed felt distinctly empty, which shouldn’t have surprised him— Phil always got up before him— but did vaguely. He wondered why today would be any different— and then his brain came fully online and he remembered why he was feeling like a dozy cat. He had gotten so very, very laid last night. 

No, that didn’t quite cover it. Clint was pretty sure he’d been a way more active participant than “gotten” would cover. He chuckled, squinching a little further under the covers, and gloating over the memory of pinning Phil up against the slats of the staircase. Maybe it was good that Phil had already gotten up, so Clint didn’t have to try and explain why he was suddenly grinning like a loon.

Then again, no Phil in the bed meant no morning sex, and Clint could really have gone for some of that. Nice, leisurely necking and rubbing, maybe Phil using that impressive dick of his to get up between Clint’s thighs and hump, see if Jasper’d hidden lube in any  _ other  _ drawers in the apartment. Of course, that would mean Clint couldn’t see what Phil’s face was like when he came, and that’ad be a travesty. He’d missed seeing it last night, too busy coming himself. He wanted to know, so bad, if Phil was a scruncher, or if his face went slack with release. If his eyes fluttered shut or opened wide. 

But Phil was gone, so no morning sex— too bad, so sad. That meant if he wanted  _ more _ , Clint was going to have to find a way to bring the conversation up, and that’d probably get awkward. Worth it, though— at least, if Phil wanted it, too. 

Phil would want more, wouldn’t he? After all, to him it was just sex, nothing more, and Clint was  _ pretty  _ sure that he’d rocked Phil’s world. At least, he’d been all blissed-out and kind of shocked-looking when they’d stumbled upstairs to bed last night. Which was its own brand of amazing, since Clint knew he had game but this was  _ Coulson _ , and he probably wasn’t any more easily impressed by someone’s sex moves than by their tactical skills. 

Although.

This  _ was _ Coulson. Phil Coulson. Senior Agent Phillip J. Coulson, and he could tell a mark was lying from what they had for breakfast. If he kept on fucking Phil, he’d probably blink wrong during a blow job or something and Phil would realize Clint loved him. That dampened Clint for a moment, freezing his hips mid-hump— which was when he realized he’d begun to rub against the sheets in the first place, encouraging his morning wood. 

Time to stop remembering last night, and start adjusting to this morning; he could deal with the fraught question of fucking Phil once he was fully awake.

Clint opened his eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the sun. The room was washed in the pale light that filtered through the sheets over their big windows, and his own face was blinking back at him from the alcove mirror, looking both tentative and blissful. And there, just coming into the room and too quiet for Clint to hear with his ears out, was Phil himself.

He was looking down, picking at his fingernails with a soft little half-frown on his face. The downward twist of his lips was nearly enough to break Clint’s heart— or jump start his libido. Phil was still damp from the shower and wearing only a towel around his waist. His chest hair glistened with lingering drops of water, as did his skin. A last little droplet was curving its lazy way down his stomach to disappear into his towel. 

As Clint watched in the mirror, Phil raised his gaze from his hands— and fixed it directly on Clint’s behind. The frown disappeared, replaced with a stopped-short look as Phil started to move his gaze towards Clint’s shoulders— and then a blush, as Phil looked up at the mirror and realized Clint had been watching him.  

“Hey,” Clint said, to cover both their confusion, “lemme get my ears.”

He did, so, thinking furiously while he put them in. The best course of action was just to brazen it out. Pretend that no-strings-attached sex with colleagues while undercover as a married couple was something he did every other week, and that he didn’t feel tentative at all. So he rolled over, stretching elaborately, and pasted what he hoped was a smug grin (as opposed to a leer) on his face.

“Sleep well?” he asked Phil. 

“Yeah, except for the part where I dreamed I was necking with Alexander Pierce,” Phil said.

Clint choked.

“I… I am so sorry,” he managed after a moment. 

“You should be.” Phil came over to sit on the bed, turning as he talked to Clint and looking up from under his lashes. “How about you? How… how did you sleep?”

“Like I got really well fucked,” Clint said before he could stop himself. In his defense— he was being treated to a close-up view of Phil’s chest hair and it was really distracting. 

Amazingly, Phil snorted with what sounded like startled laughter. His face broke into smiles about the eyes and lips.

“Well, I… good. Um, very good. Um. Feeling’s mutual. And. About that…”

He was looking down at his hands again, splayed out over his thighs like he wanted to rub his palms on the towel but didn’t know how to start.

Clint sat all the way up, watching him.

“Phil?” he asked, softly. Were they about to have morning sex, after all? 

“I’ve never.” Phil huffed. “Well, not  _ never.  _ But I haven’t often. I. How do you. Arg, this is going to sound stupid.”

It was such an un-Coulson thing to say, such a  _ Phil _ thing, that Clint’s heart tried to crawl out of his chest. He reached out and laid what he hoped was a steadying hand on Phil’s shoulder.

“What’s supposed to happen on the morning after?” Phil asked all in a rush. 

Clint didn’t know what he was expecting, if not a proposition, but that hadn’t been it.

“I— “ Clint said, trying to pull his eyebrows back down before they rose straight off his head.

“I mean, this kind of morning after. I’ve had— I know the drill; showers and offers of breakfast and handshakes and out the door before it gets awkward. But when you’re living together like we are, how is that supposed to work?”

He looked just as surprised that he’d asked as Clint felt, a self-deprecating smile trying to start on his face and slipping off, repeatedly. It was nearly as bad as when he’d asked Clint at the diner whether he seemed to be in love enough. 

“Well,” Clint stretched it out, trying to buy time while he thought about his angles. “I mean, usually when you’re living together you’ve already been having sex for awhile, so it’s not really the same thing.”

“Okay,” Phil nodded, “but in a way, we have— I mean, Phillip Moore and Clint Ford have been. Having sex for a while.”

“Good point,” Clint conceded. Actually. Actually it was a really good point. He could just keep on using Clint Ford as a scapegoat if Phil noticed the whole love thing— nothing had to change. “Okay, so, I mean at this point in a relationship? Morning afters are just… mornings. You just get up and do your routine, maybe a bit more sore than usual, but that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Phil echoed, and damn him, he actually seemed disappointed.

Clint supposed from the outside it really could seem anti-climactic— especially since it might be old hat to Clint Ford and Phil Moore but it was all very new to Clint Barton. He deserved  _ something _ .

“There is morning-after bacon, though.” 

Phil looked up at him.

“Bacon?” he asked.

“Definitely bacon,” Clint said firmly. “Bacon is non-negotiable.”

That got him a full-on smile, the kind Clint had come to realize he’d probably be chasing for the rest of his life.

“Then let’s go get some bacon,” Phil agreed. He slapped his hands on his thighs, stood up— and his towel didn’t come with him.

Clint stared at his suddenly bare backside and fought down the urge to change his answer to sausage, instead.

####

They went on their morning run together, largely because neither of them could think of a plausible reason not to. It wasn’t awkward, per se, but Phil noticed that the pace was far quicker than usual. Maybe they were trying to outrun any tricky conversational topics, like the fact that they’d come all over each other less than twelve hours ago. Phil could admit to himself that they probably needed to have a much more thorough, ahem, debrief of the previous night than the one they’d had on waking up, but he was absolutely, categorically, not capable of it yet. 

By the time they got back to their front door, Phil  _ still _ didn’t think he could talk one-on-one with Clint without something else stupid falling out of his mouth. Trying to trying to sit knee-to-knee with Clint at a conjugal breakfast table, sharing coffee, whether it was at a diner or in their own space, seemed like a recipe for disaster. So when Clint turned to him, his face gone tentative, and opened his mouth to ask something, Phil panicked. 

Which was how they ended up downtown to Driftless’s farmer’s market, with Phil slowly reaching the end of an innocent and undeserving pork vendor’s patience while Clint bounced behind him and shuffled at least three heavily-laden plastic bags.

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I said we needed bacon,” Clint said, though he didn’t sound especially put out. “How about this one?”

“Too much fat,” Phil responded, setting the package aside so he could keep shuffling through the ten nearly-identical packages of bacon strewn across the blue plaid tablecloth. 

From the other side of the table, the pork vendor sighed audibly and re-crossed her arms. 

“What about this one?” There was an edge to Clint’s voice as he pushed the package forward.

Phil took the package dubiously and turned it over a couple times. He was fairly sure it was a package he’d seen before— he remembered the uneven streaking. 

“I—” he started, beginning to pass the package back to Clint— then he caught a glimpse of the vendor’s hopeful face. And Clint’s not-that-subtle glower. “I’ll take it. Uh. And some of the chops. You pick.”

It wasn’t that he felt like he had making-up to do; she didn’t have any other customers, and presumably she understood how tricky a thing bacon could be. Too much fat in the wrong places and it all fell apart, too little and it turned into jerky. He wasn’t going to buy substandard bacon— especially not for a morning-after.

On the other hand, it was possible, Phil admitted to himself, that he was still a little nervous about doing it right. Was that enough bacon? What about if there were more morning afters— which was not a thing he’d decided he wanted, or that Clint would even want, assuming the topic came up. But  _ just supposing _ there were, would bacon twice show a lack of effort? 

He reached into the nearby freezer bin and pulled out a package of breakfast sausages to hand to the vendor. Just in case. 

“Are you planning on feeding us for a week?” Clint asked. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but our freezer is kinda small.”

Phil looked at the bag the vendor was making up for them. It was bulging in several places.

“Um. Maybe I’m getting a little carried away. I can stop?”

“No, no, it’s cute,” Clint said warmly.

“It’s—” Phil did a double-take, he was so startled. Clint seemed sincere, even if there was a little mischief in his smile. The last time someone had used “cute” to describe him had been… his mother, probably.  “Cute?” 

“Extremely cute, Mr. Moore. The five minutes of bacon-winnowing was good, but I have to say the way you wiggled each and every egg in four different cartons before picking pretty much takes the cake.”

It was probably useless to hope the heat on his face was just the summer sun, and that he wasn’t blushing painfully red.

“You don’t have to get sarcastic.” 

“I’m not being sarcastic!” Clint threw up his hands, jostling his bags. “It’s honestly kinda cool. I mean, look at us, bickering at the Farmer’s Market. I feel like we’re a real-for-real married couple now. Just— could we break long enough to get breakfast before lunchtime?”

“Clint, practically the first thing you did when we got here was yell ‘scones’ and clean the Mud City Mixing Company booth out of all the currant ones.” 

It had taken Clint about two minutes to eat three— about the same time it had taken Phil to decide he needed to add some baking cookbooks to his library pull list. 

“They were great scones. They lasted me all of ten seconds. I’m a growing boy, babe, I need protein.” Clint said, sounding injured.

“The barbecue sauce stand down the next aisle sells pulled pork sandwiches, too,” the vendor put in, as she finally handed Phil his change.

“I would kiss you if I didn’t think that would get me kicked out,” Clint told her, beaming, then turned back to Phil. “Come on Mr. Moore. Forget bacon— it’s barbecue time.”

He was off so fast, skidding around double-wide strollers and leaping over lapdogs, that it took half a block for Phil to catch up with him. And then it was only because Clint stopped dead in the middle of the aisle and yelled “strawberries!” He was off again in an instant, splitting straight through a couple middle-aged women wielding enormous bouquets and wicker baskets and bounding up to a small booth. He scooped up a pint of berries, grinning madly as he looked them over then putting them back down so he could re-adjust his burden of bags. 

“Strawberries!” he reiterated when Phil got close, then popped one in his mouth. “Hngh. Oh. Ng.” He closed his eyes in evident bliss. “Oh god, Phil, that’s amazing.”

Phil could only gulp and agree. It was like Clint was doing it on purpose, trying to seduce him back into bed— and it was getting really hard to remember why that might be a bad idea.

“Come on, Phil, you know you want it,” Clint said, holding a strawberry out by the stem, presenting it at just the right height so that Phil could lean forward and be fed. Phil’s breath caught, and he stared at the berry stupidly for a moment. Clint waggled it, oddly solemn— and repeated his invitation. Phil found his gaze running from Clint’s strong fingers, up his arm, to catch and hold his gaze. He leaned forward— which was when disaster struck. 

While Phil was still an inch or two from taking Clint’s offering, someone jostled him from behind, budged in front of Clint— and nabbed the pint of strawberries.

“Hey!” Clint cried, as the strawberry thief— a middle-aged man with a Phish tour t-shirt— flung a handful of bills at the vendor. “I was buying those! That’s the last pint, you jerk.”

“You snooze, you lose,” the man grunted. “Hey, Mark!” he called to someone in the crowd, holding the berries aloft and already moving away. “I got your goddamn berries for your goddamn stripes on your goddamn flag cake. Now let’s get  _ out _ of here.” 

“At least we’re not the only couple bickering at the farmer’s market?” Phil asked Clint, whose already-bewildered face fell further.

“Aw, strawberries, no,” he said, and shuffled away.

Phil watched him go, thinking hard. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” the vendor said. 

Phil turned, ready to read him the riot act on Clint’s behalf— and then froze. The vendor was just a kid— okay, a teenager— wearing a shirt with dancing raspberries and looking genuinely distressed. It didn’t seem right to take the disappointment out on them at all.

He sighed, pasted on his best Agent Coulson is Your Friend face, and set about trying to reassure the kid that it was all right, no one was mad, and Clint was slightly allergic to strawberries anyway. 

Which was how he ended up, a few minutes later, meeting up with Clint at a rickety picnic table in the parking lot, with an entire flat of raspberries in his arms. Clint was wrestling their bags, two paper-wrapped parcels, and a couple bottles of water onto the table. Phil set his offering down, just in Clint’s line of vision, and watched in satisfaction as his eyes went wide.

“You  _ do _ love me, Mr. Moore,” he said.

“Sure I do, Indy,” Phil told him, half terrified and half exhilarated at how natural, in the moment, it felt to say so out loud. 

He didn’t have long to follow that train of thought— Clint distracted him by waving a parcel in his face. It smelled like meaty heaven. Phil accepted his sandwich, sat, and unwrapped it carefully to minimize leakage. He paused with it halfway to his mouth.

“Clint… did you have them put  _ bacon _ on my pulled pork?”

Clint winked at him, and bit down on his own sandwich. Phil watched sauce spiral down his pinky, his wrist, his arm… then wrenched his gaze away and ate, suddenly ravenous. He knew it was probably just a joke to Clint, that he was just humoring Phil or trying to lighten the mood.

It was still the best bacon Phil had ever tasted. 

… Oh god, he was  _ pathetic.  _

He was pathetic and if he was going to be like this, he’d never be able to have a sensible conversation with Clint about sex without doing something alarming. He needed to concentrate on his sandwich, ignoring any and all bacon subtext, and try to get himself under control. 

Half a sandwich and three napkins later, they were both finally sated enough to slow down. Clint watched the family next to them pick up and leave. Then he turned to Phil, who braced himself. Here it came— ready or not. He just hoped he got out of it with his dignity marginally intact.

“Hey so, I got a text from Cassie,” Clint said— and then laughed incredulously. “Oh my god, what the hell is that face, Phil?”

“Nothing,” Phil said, dropping his sandwich and burying his head in his hands, heedless of the mess. He took a deep breath. “Nothing at all. Go on.”

“All right, babe. If you insist.” Clint’s voice held only amusement, thank god. “Apparently there’s some co-op shindig for the 4th? As in, of July. Which is apparently this Wednesday. I’d honestly forgotten.”

Phil raised his head, feeling a little gob-smacked, and counted the days and weeks in his head. 

“That explains your berry thief’s flag cake, anyway. My god the time’s passed fast.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, staring sadly at the remains of his own meal, “and we’ve got jack shit to show for it except one missing student and one dead one.”

“We have your inventory photos,” Phil pointed out, “and my rubbings. My missing SHIELD artifacts.”

“Yeah, all right, we’ve got evidence— just not answers. I’d fucking sell my soul for answers right now, if I could find someone willing to take the damn thing.”

Phil opened his mouth to say something then realized there were too many responses to pick just one, and most of them were better left in his head anyway. He settled for squeezing Clint’s hand reassuringly, re-stickying his own hand with the residual sauce from Clint’s fingers. Clint smiled at him a little ruefully, and squeezed back.

“Aw, Mr. Moore, what am I gonna do with you? Well, fine.” He straightened up and pulled his hand back, cleansing it efficiently— and belatedly— with his napkin. “Speaking of your rubbings— what’re we going to do with them? I can’t exactly just check an ideogram-to-English dictionary out of the library. Do we send them off to SHIELD or don’t we?”

“I’m not sure sending them to SHIELD will do much good,” Phil frowned.

“Why? We don’t have anyone there who can translate Mayan glyphs? I… am trying to decide whether that surprises me. Fury seems like he’d be more thorough.”

“His reputation is safe enough; we did have someone. Her name was Elena Magnos.”

“Oh.” Clint slumped. “Of course. And that’s not exactly the kind of position where you’d plan for having redundancy. Well, I could ask around the lab, but I’m kinda hoping  _ not _ to let on we’re spying on ‘em. I mean— I don’t think Bent’d be suspicious, man hardly notices things that don’t affect his shit dissertation, but I don’t think he’s got the skills we need. Tess, maybe? Ugh, but she’s close to both Burgoyne and Santander. I don’t think she’d split on us, but they might notice.”

“And yesterday evening didn’t exactly help rule any suspects out,” Phil sighed. “If we do send it in to SHIELD, maybe Jasper can find yet another junior agent with a hidden passion.”

“Maybe,” Clint said, seeming dissatisfied. He’d started picking apart his sandwich bits as he spoke, pulling out the half-bitten pickle and setting it carefully to the left of the bun. It was oddly endearing. “But Fury did say to keep a low profile, and Pierce did just see me. Even if he didn’t know who I was— I dunno, I just don’t want to rock the boat right now and risk him somehow finding out.”

“We don’t exactly have much choice; we can’t wait for you to get a doctorate in archeology to solve this, Indy,” Phil said gently.

Clint picked up his pickle and frowned at it. 

“Or,” he said slowly, clearly thinking something through, “maybe there’s another option. That Hudson guy, the missing student? Jeffrey said he knew three languages or something— it’s why he was helping catalog. Do other history people do second languages? I mean it’d make sense, given there’s a lot of not-English history out there. Does the department have any, uh, Latin American experts?”

“On long dead languages? Ancient Mayan isn’t exactly Ancient Greek.” And then Phil paused to reconsider. The department didn’t have anyone expert on anything western hemisphere south of Tijuana. But they did  _ network _ . “Although— what if I asked Phyl?”

“Phyl reads Mayan ideograms.” It wasn’t a question, more of a flat statement, as if Clint wouldn’t put it past her.

“No— but she seems to know every professor of history in a tri-state radius. If there’s someone at another university who does, she’ll know. It might be slow— there might not be anyone— but we can always send it to SHIELD if we get desperate. And this is a lot better than you trying to wring it out of Dr. Santander.”

“Agreed.” Clint said, perking up. “Okay, you talk to her first thing Monday— maybe take some photos of it first though, as back-up. But if she can’t find someone quick, send ‘em to SHIELD. We can’t be here another semester. You gone from SHIELD that long? That’s not quiet and under the radar.”

“You either,” Phil said. “I’m guessing Fury faked you breaking a leg to explain you being out of the field even this long.”

The sudden melancholy surprised him; he was used to changing objectives on missions, leaving them undone. He didn’t like it, but he was used to it. Needs must and priorities changed. Of course, if priorities changed this time he’d never get his dissertation done. So he’d be left with an undone mission and unfinished dissertation and a lonely apartment.

Clint looked just as dissatisfied as Phil felt, at least. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “God. I hate waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wish someone would just— bam!— come along and monologue the whole thing in front of one of my stupid useless listening bugs, or somewhere else we can eavesdrop on them. I’m not cut out for this.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Indy. From where I sit, you’re doing an impressive job.” Phil bit his lip before more could come out, a little shocked at the warmth in his own voice. It seemed to perk Clint up though, so he supposed he could forgive himself. This once.

They got up and cleared off their table after that, gathering their raspberry flat and making for the exit, and were nearly there when Clint made (another) sudden detour to a chutney stand, this time nearly bowling over a little old man carrying an enormous bag of baby potatoes on his back in his haste to get there.

The stand was unexpectedly engrossing, containing as it did about five varieties of chutney, four of jam, and several assorted sauces, plus a large and garrulous chutney vendor. Phil became immersed in the decision between a sweet onion jam and a tomato-corn chutney, peppering the vendor with questions and glancing between the two jars with increasing desperation, like the proverbial horse between two troughs. Or was it the proverbial donkey? 

He didn’t even notice at first when Clint disappeared. He was too busy trying to identify defensive weapons (besides the jam) in case the vendor leapt over the table to try and wring his neck. He looked like he wanted to.

“’Does… it… freeze?’ Does it freeze, he asks.” the vendor rumbled, raising himself to his full— and very considerable— height, his mustache bristling in outrage. “Bro!” 

Unsure whether that was an enraged no, or an equally affronted yes, Phil turned to ask Clint for his opinion, and finally realized he was gone.

He fought down the immediate wave of alarm that tried to swamp him. It wasn’t like anyone was going to kidnap Clint from the farmer’s market.

“Ah,” he turned back to the vendor, “did you see where my husband we—” 

“Phil!” Clint’s voice, affronted as if he too had just been asked if his goods could be cold-preserved, rang out from behind Phil.

He swung around and came face-to-leaf with a large bundle of greenstuff.

“Clint?” Phil asked, bewildered.

“You. Lied.” Clint hissed.

“I… did? How did I?”

“ _ You _ said there was no native kale this time of year. ‘It’s a cold weather crop, Clint, I assure you.’” 

Phil was fairly certain he hadn’t sounded nearly as prissy when he’d said it was Clint did repeating it, but was not allowed time to object.

“You said there was no kale at the farmer’s market. No point in looking. Well what. Do. You. Call. This?” Clint shook the leaves in Phil’s face to emphasize each word, like a cross between vegetal maracas and a leafy fan dance.

Phil drew back far enough to focus on the offending produce.

“Er. Chard?”

Clint blinked at him, then at the bundle of leaves in his hand.

“Chard?” he repeated.

“Chard,” affirmed the vendor. “Kale last week— early season over now. Is similar flavor profile though, bro. Very nice. You put little in salad, goes great with plum ginger compote I make. Little fresh goat cheese, red onion, shaved beet.”

“Ooh,” Clint stepped forward, his anger over the brassica mix-up forgotten. “You have samples?” He dropped the chard in Phil’s arms. 

“Um, did we pay for this?” Phil asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“And you’re okay that it’s not kale?”

“You’re the kale freak. I’m not going to discriminate just because it’s chard. Anyway, look— it’s  _ rainbow _ .”

He seemed genuinely thrilled, too. Phil bit back a laugh. Was it only about a week ago he’d been so sure he could scare Clint off via copious amounts of quinoa? And here Clint was, fearlessly fondling strange foodstuffs. 

He was also sweetening their prospective chutney vendor back up. Clint had him laughing a hearty booming laugh and opening up secret jars of strange-looking glop. Phil was fairly certain they were going to come home with more chutney than they could eat in a week of Sundays. If it didn’t turn out to freeze well he was going to have to send it all to Jasper.

Now  _ that _ would be hard to keep under the radar at SHIELD. He wondered how Alexander Pierce felt about plum ginger compote. 

Clint gestured expansively, flinging chutney all over and sending his spoon flying. It sent a wave of fondness through Phil. He’d been an idiot, back at SHIELD. He hadn’t known Clint at all— however amazing he’d thought Agent Barton was, Clint was ten times better. It was getting harder to remember how he was supposed to give this up when he got home.

“Clint,” he said ardently. 

Oops. 

He  _ had _ to find a way to keep his love from leaking.

Clint turned, looking curious— maybe a bit suspicious— and opened his mouth.

“Phil? You— Dr. Jones!”

That— was not what Phil had expected.

“Mr. Ford. Fancy meeting you here.”

Ah. That Dr. Jones. 

She came up and around Phil to greet Clint.

“I know, right?” Clint replied to her. “Small world.”

“We missed you at the banquet last night.” Phil fought not to stiffen, thought he saw Clint go a little blank. “Merlin asked about you— Cassie said you’d gone home early. Not feeling well?”

“Er,” Clint glanced at Phil in as nonsubtle a subtle way as he could. “Something urgent came up. Got to hear the lecture though.”

“Eh,” Jones replied, “if you’ve heard it once you’ve heard it— but I suppose you hadn’t had a chance yet. Pierce comes back to the same themes so often he’s beaten a herd of dead horses. I wish they'd find someone else.”

“Why don't they?” Clint asked.

““As far as I can tell, its because hes on the board of one of the major funders for the expedition. Foundation money that actually lets you charge all your overhead is hard to come by. He's the reason we don't have to fly coach, so as long as he wants a spot, he has it.”

“Why’d he want to come to Driftless every year though?” Clint asked. “He's such a big shot and we’re not— I mean the U’s fine, but it’s not exactly Ivy League. Oh, I guess unless it's because he's old buddies with Doc Santander.”

Yes, Phil thought, old buddies indeed. He had an uncomfortable flashback to his dream, Pierce’s fingers on his chest, feeling for his beating heart. 

Jones snorted. 

“‘Old buddies.’ I’ll tell you, they— ooh, is that the blueberry fennel confit? You haven’t lived unless you experience that.”

Phil privately thought that highly unlikely, but the vendor preened.

“You want more, bro?” he asked Jones.

“No, still working my way through the jar. It freezes well though.” So at least that was one question answered. “No— I wondered if you knew where Thursday was today?” She jerked her head at the empty space next to the chutney stall. “I was looking for criminis. She’s ruined me for other fungi.”

The vendor’s entire face fell, mustache leading the way.

“Aw bro,” he sighed. “Is tragedy. You not hear?”

Phil didn’t think he was imagining the way Dr. Jones had frozen— just like he and Clint had.

“Heard what?” she asked.

“Thursday was in mushroom caves early, bro. Always goes early to load van for market. When she get there— she sees body, bro.”

“Body?” Jones asked. “A dead body? A dead  _ human _ body?”

“Yeah bro,” the vendor nodded, sighing lugubriously. “Police not say who. But—” he glanced around and then leaned forward. “She think they think is missing student. From campus. You know.”

“Hudson,” Clint sighed, and Jones looked over at him, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah bro, that him. Thursday said police said name, didn’t think she could hear. So,” the vendor shrugged, “no mushrooms today.”

“But— that doesn’t make sense,” Jones said. “Hudson’s been missing for days. She only found him this morning?”

“Yeah. Not there when she was in caves last night, bro.”

“Wait,” Clint interjected, “what do you mean ‘caves?’ Like— the caves by the river, those caves?”

Jones turned to him, shaking her head, and still looking a little sharper than Phil would have liked.

“Not quite. Thursday farms mushrooms in the limestone caves on a creek upriver— the outlet is a few miles from the city. I can’t imagine why he’d be all the way up there, or how he got there. Well, shit,” she sighed, slumping so hard her canvas market bag fell off her shoulder. “I suppose I better let Miranda know— although it’s likely she’s already heard. She tends to know everything.” 

Clint picked her bag up and handed it to her, looking as guileless as possible. She accepted it with a tight smile.

“Well, Mr. Ford and Mr. Moore, I’ll see you around. Enjoy your day.”

They said they would, but Phil didn’t think either of them meant it.

Not a missing student and a dead student now— two dead students. And nothing to show for it but a rubbing they couldn’t translate and a camera full of photos of inventory entries.

As they made their way back to the car, weighed down with three chutneys and a jam as well as their other purchases, Clint shook his head. 

“I suppose we’re going to get a visit from Captain Schunk,” he said.

“Probably. Unfortunately, I’m not sure we have an alibi this time. Not one that holds up, since it seems like half the audience noticed we left early.”

“Ugh, yeah. I don’t suppose she’ll take our word that we just boinked and went to bed.” Clint tossed their bags in the trunk and slammed it down.

“Probably not,” Phil agreed. 

They didn’t say anything on the drive back, letting the hiss of air conditioning from the vents and the top 40 of the ‘80s, ‘90s, and today fill the dead air between them. Nothing seemed important enough to be worth breaking the brooding silence— especially not boinking, whether past, present, or potential.

 

####

They didn’t get back from the farmer’s market until the early afternoon. Clint wasn’t certain how that happened, exactly. He hadn’t been aware of time slipping away from them or the sun getting higher and hotter— though both had obviously happened. Hell, he didn’t fully realize it until Phil’s stomach rumbled and he paused in the middle of putting away the kohlrabi he’d picked up early in the expedition, looking down at his own midriff as if it had betrayed him.

Clint’s own stomach grumbled in sympathy, and after a moment he and Phil both burst out laughing.

“I thought those barbecue sandwiches would last longer.” Phil said, “shall we call it lunchtime? What’s your pleasure?”

He was still grinning faintly, wiping away a tear of laughter, as he turned to Clint. It made him look radiant, somehow. Radiant, and approachable, and Clint wanted nothing more than to kiss any remaining tears off the crinkles of his eyes.

“I’m easy. And desperate. Do what you want,” Clint replied, through the sudden frog in his throat. “I’m gonna, I’ll just— back in a minute.”

He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Halfway there, his stomach grumbled again. He spun back around, yanked a protein bar out of the box on the counter, and practically ran upstairs. Hopefully Phil would just think he was desperate for a bathroom break.

As he sat on the toilet, morosely gnawing on the protein bar, Clint considered sex. It’d been too damn good—  _ Phil _ had been too damn good— for Clint’s own good. That was the essential problem.

He badly wanted more of it, as much as he could get. He was pretty sure that he could convince Phil, too— but he was also pretty sure he shouldn’t. He’d come way too close to giving himself away a minute ago. Hell, he’d come close to confessing about ten times at the farmer’s market, as well. He’d wanted so bad to hang off Phil, cling to his arm, kiss him in public on his stupid forehead, wrap arms around his neck and never let go.

Not even Clint Ford could get away with that shit, and if Clint wanted to have sex with Phil again that badly, he was going to have to learn to keep his cuddle reflex under strict control. Phil hadn’t signed up for that— Phil  _ wouldn’t _ sign up for that.

It was way past time Clint learned to be an adult and take his pleasure where he could get it. And until he could do that, any sex was probably unsafe.

“You all right up there?” Phil called up the stairs.

Clint startled upright, dropping the last of the bar on the bathroom floor.

“Aw, snack, no,” he muttered, then lifted his voice to address Phil. “Yeah, be right down.”

He scooped up the last of the bar— now covered in a fine scattering of chest hair, because neither Clint nor Phil could be bothered to sweep that often— and dumped it into the trash can. Then he lifted the toilet seat up and let it fall back down loudly enough to be heard downstairs and flushed conspicuously.

When he trotted back down the steps, Phil had lunch spread out. He’d opened all three packages of cheese they’d gotten at the market, gotten out Clint’s boiled eggs, added crackers, done weird lettuce wrap things with some turkey and barbecue sauce— and set a cup of raspberries right at Clint’s place at the table.

It was nearly enough to make Clint yell at him to knock it off. If Phil kept on pulling shit like this, Clint was never going to get his feelings under control, and so he was never going to be able to bang him again. It wasn’t fair.

“That looks good,” he managed, pulling his chair out and rubbing his hands together in exaggerated eagerness. 

Phil glanced up at him and beamed a little.

“Glad you think so. I thought we could, um, that is, I’d like to— if you want to— maybe we could talk about—”

About what, Clint never did find out. The doorbell rang at that moment, and both of them spun towards the sound.

“Who the hell—” Phil muttered, getting up to go answer it.

Who the hell turned out to be Captain Schunk, standing on their front stoop and glaring at them both impartially.

“I need to talk to you— both of you,” she said, looking past Phil and trying to squeeze inside.

Clint and Phil glanced at each other, and Clint didn’t figure it took a mind-reader to know they were on the same page.

“Okay,” Phil said, stepping smoothly out the door and forcing her to back up. 

Clint slid into place behind him, leaning his shoulder casually on the doorframe and bracing his hand against the opposite side, blocking access.

She looked from him to Phil and back again, clearly sizing them up. Clint plastered on his Cute Dumb Guy face, twisting the Oblivious knob up to eleven, and smiled at her. Phil crossed his hands in front of him and bounced on his heels once, twice, like he was starting to get impatient but determined not to let it show.

Schunk huffed one last time, then crossed her arms and backed off a little further, trampling their daylilies. Once she did, Phil sat down on the stoop.

“What can we do for you, Captain?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.

He did— as did Clint: she wanted their alibis for the entire previous night. If what the Chutney Bro had told them was true, the actual window of opportunity for Hudson’s body to show up was more like late evening, since the mushroom farmer apparently had a habit of “getting up at like 2 am bro, for real” to do her last harvest, to keep things fresher. (”Now chutney, bro, no one checking chutney to see if dew still on jars. Chutney forgives, bro. Good night sleep with chutney. You want try cherry chipotle chutney? Very hot.”)

Still, their alibi was, well—

“We were at the Walcott Memorial International Relations and Cultural Exchange Gala on campus,” Phil said, straight-faced.

“The whole time?” Schunk asked, in a particular kind of too-innocent tone that might as well have had klaxons going. So she knew they’d slipped out. Well, their performance  _ had _ been eye-catching, and she’d probably talked to Phyl first what with Hudson being a history student.

“Ah, no,” Phil said, looking up at Clint with a really excellent imitation of bashfulness. “We slipped out near the end of the lecture and went home.”

“Oh yeah? Why’d you do that? Forgot you left the stove on?” 

She hadn’t managed to catch them in a lie, but she was still happy enough with the answer, as Clint had known she’d be: it looked bad.

“No, we didn’t leave the oven on,” Phil sighed, still playing patient, and gone all Agent Coulson underneath. 

Clint was suddenly very tired of patient. He wanted Agent Coulson to go away so he could have Phil back and find out what he had been about to ask. 

“We went home to have sex,” he said firmly.

Both Schunk and Phil stared up at him, so possibly he’d been a little  _ too _ firm.

“What?” he asked, shrugging defensively and trying to apologize to Phil with his eyes. “We did.”

“That… is true,” Phil agreed, turning back to Schunk. “And then we went straight to bed.”

“Uh… huh,” Schunk looked between the two of them, arms dropping a little and sounding like she hadn’t expected Clint to refuse to play along with her stupid little interrogation game. “And can anyone verify that?”

Phil didn’t even bother to answer with words, he just gave her the deadest stare Clint’d ever seen.

“Not unless the walls’re thinner than we thought,” Clint replied, just to be an asshole. “I mean, we weren’t trying to be loud or anything. But there was that bit when I fi—”

“Oh look, there’s Cassie,” Phil interjected, pointing down the walk.

There  _ was _ Cassie, who looked like she was trying to hurry without flat-out running. When Schunk turned to look, she abruptly slowed down to a saunter.

“Hey Clint, Phil,” she said in a cheery voice. “How are you! I just came over to see if Clint could help with our lab homework. You know, like I asked you last night at the banquet, the one we were all at together.”

“At the banquet?” Schunk snapped, before turning back to Phil. “You said you didn’t—” 

“At the  _ lecture _ ,” Phil corrected her, carefully not looking at Cassie as he did so. “Cassie knows we went home early.”

“Uh yeah, Cassie totally knows that,” Cassie agreed, wincing. “Hard to miss, with the flirting and the hands going everywhere.”

“Yes thank you,” Phil said, in a tone he used to use with junior agents who needed to simmer the fuck down before they gave away everyone’s position. 

“I mean, I’m pretty sure the entire back row had a front row seat, if you know what I mean.” It was a damn good thing Cassie wasn’t a junior agent, Clint decided. “And that’s just at the lecture. I’m not sure  _ how _ you two are gonna show your faces at the picnic on Wednesday, after all that.”

“I— why— after all what?” Clint asked, standing up straight. Oh god, what kind of tale was she going to try to spin now?

Cassie winced again, more naturally this time.

“D’you remember meeting anyone on your way home, or were you two too… uh… distracted?”

“No, I don’t rememb—”

“Oh,” Phil said. Clint looked down to find him stifling something that looked suspiciously like laughter. “Oops. I take it you know the daylily girl?”

“’Daylily girl’?” Clint asked.

“The girl who passed us last night on the path, while we were— that girl,” Phil said.

“That girl,” Cassie agreed. “That’s my roomie. One of my— anyway, hoo boy you made an impression. Not just on her either. D’you remember Tad from the potluck? The guy across the way?”

Across the wa—

“Cactus guy?” Clint said.

“Yep. Anyway, I saw him this morning at the community garden, and he said he saw you guys too when he was out last night watering his forsythias.”

“He… waters his forsythias in the dark?” Phil asked, sounding bewildered. Clint sympathized— he couldn’t tell if Cassie was still telling the truth, or she’d started her well-intentioned embellishing again.

“Look I don’t know,” Cassie sighed, “there’s a lot I don’t ask Tad, okay? But, sorry, I got you all off on a tangent and you were talking. Should I come back later?” 

She beamed innocently at Captain Schunk.

Schunk looked between the three of them, and deflated.

“I was just going,” she said. “Can you tell me your roommate’s name, in case I need to contact her?”

“Why, what would you need to talk to her for?” Cassie said, her eyes going wide. “Is she in trouble? Are Clint and Phil? It’s not a crime to neck in public you know, the straight kids do it all the time and no one ever says anything to  _ them _ . I hope you’re not trying to push them out or something because if you are let me tell you, it won’t work. I’m a member of the Campus Queer Alliance and I know—”

Clint went inside. It was either that or bust out laughing there on the stoop and spoil Cassie’s performance. And that would be a crying shame.

Phil and Cassie came in a few minutes later.

After Phil closed the door, he leaned back against it and started laughing, a helpless chuckle that raised happy goosebumps on Clint’s forearms.

“You’re something else,” he told Cassie. “Thanks.”

“Whatever,” Cassie shrugged. “I was trying to get here to warn you, but too late, huh?”

“How’d you know, anyway,” Clint asked, as he finished pouring her a drink and brought it over. After that performance, he felt she deserved way more than just a lemonade, but it’d do for a start. 

“Word gets around.” Cassie took the cup from him and downed half of it in one long gulp. “I mean, about you guys— you were really not subtle, wow— but also about Hudson. That, and Tess texted me. Schunk was on Dr. Burgoyne about it already this morning. So, as long as Schunk is gone I really can skeddadle if you two are, uh, like needing private time.”

“I’m… questioning how long you think gay sex lasts,” Clint told her. “Because I can guarantee it’s not fifteen hours.”

It was mean of him, he knew. She’d been nothing but helpful. He just seemed to have left his self-control somewhere in the darkness last night, or else he was using so much of it trying not to jump Phil again that he didn’t have any left for other things. Cassie choked on her lemonade.

“Hah, yeah, sorry, forget I— wow, what happened to the futon?”

“Why don’t you join us for lunch Cassie,” Phil said smoothly, turning her towards the table. “It’s already out.” 

“Sure,” Cassie said, letting herself be led. “If you’re sure it’s not a b— oh.” She glanced back at the futon, then at Clint. “ _ Oh _ .”

It was the last straw. Clint turned, put his head against the still-standing slats of the staircase, and laughed himself sick.

####

From Clint’s point of view, Sunday and Monday were almost suspiciously calm— except for the brief tempest that trying to reassemble the futon had produced. Phil had spent a little time hunting down more information on Hudson’s death, and found nothing they hadn’t already heard from the chutney vendor. Beyond that, he’d been head down in his dissertation, and Clint had left him to it. 

Clint’s own free time had been split about evenly between making a list of artifacts that were found in the temple, using his photos from the inventory; doing his homework; and the project he was working on at the moment. He’d made next to no headway on the inventory— besides the stelae, not a lot had come from Temple B. A helmet, some more potsherds, a few rusted weapons. The helmet he recognized from storage. Why would someone hide the site they came from, but just leave them out? Unless it wasn’t the artifacts themselves that were the secret— or, unless anyone who would understand the secret was gone. 

So, he’d turned from the inventory to his current project— only to run up against yet another wall.

“Phil, will you quit staring at the kohlrabi and come over here and help me?” Clint asked, when he finally got tired of watching Phil’s butt sway gently as he sorted through the crisper drawer.

“What?”

Phil popped upright and turned to face Clint. All the blood had run to his face, which was not a shock given that he’d been poking in the fridge for what felt like hours.

“I said, can you come here and help?” Clint asked patiently, and patted the open spot next to him on the futon. Phil stared at it a second, chewing his lip, before coming over. 

The one thing neither of them had done was bring up what had happened Friday night. Watching Phil, Clint wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or not that they hadn’t talked. His feelings were still in an unsettled state. Every time he thought maybe he had his stupid heart under control and it was safe to bring up, Phil would go and do something unbearably sweet. On the other hand, each time he determined that no, he definitely wouldn’t survive more sex, Phil would go and… and waggle his rump like he’d just done.

“What’s up?” Phil asked as he sat down. 

The futon creaked alarmingly, and they both tensed. 

“Maybe we should have looked for the instructions after all,” Clint said, once they were sure collapse wasn’t imminent.

“Where’s the adventure in that?” Phil settled back in. “Anyway, everything seemed to fit back together okay.”

“Except for that one nut.”

“Except that one nut, yes, you mentioned it at the time. Five times. I— arg. Sorry. I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the futon.”

“You’re… mad at the futon?” 

Clint couldn’t blame him; along about hour two of the repair job, he’d begun to wonder if they shouldn’t just leave the futon mattress on the floor in a nest of metal parts, and call it post-modernism. They’d neither of them handled it especially well— he was pretty sure he’d heard more of Phil’s profane vocabulary during its reconstruction than he had during the clusterfuck that was the Quito op. But that had been last night, it didn’t make much sense to  _ still _ be frustrated.

Phil seemed to know it, too.

“A little bit the futon. Maybe also my dissertation. Chapter four is straight now, but Chapter six just imploded, and I just… I felt like I was spinning my wheels all day. Plus that stupid rubbing— “

“Can’t Phyl find someone after all?” Clint asked, sitting forward, feeling his stomach drop. Phil had texted him saying she could, but maybe whoever it was she knew was not available, or out of the country, or dead. 

“No, she found someone all right— I don’t know who. I just don’t like having it out of my sight, copies or no. And then there’s the kohlrabi.”

“What… about the kohlrabi?” 

“I have no  _ fucking _ idea what to do with it.” Phil growled, and curled over on himself. “I don’t know what to do for dinner tonight and that thing keeps staring at me and I just, for once, would like to not have to think about it.”

He looked so miserable that Clint had to fight down the urge to ruffle his hair. 

“Well okay, so, don’t,” he said.

“We have to have dinner,” Phil replied, his face muffled in his hands.

“Yeah okay, but… look, I know you don’t like delivery, but maybe just for one night? We’ve got coupons. You look like you need a break, and I’d do it only I confess I got no idea what to do with kohlrabi either.”

As soon as he said it, Clint felt bad— probably what Phil’d meant was he wished Clint would cook or something. Pull his own weight. But before Clint could mention the option, Phil looked up. He was staring at Clint like Clint had just pulled a strike team out of his ass.

“ _ Could _ we?” he asked. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“No— course not. I assumed you’d be the one who minded. Let’s get Chinese or something, we’ve been good lately. You gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” Phil said, slumping. “Like I said, I’m sorry. It’s just been a frustrating day.” 

“Yeah well, it’s not the kohlrabi’s fault we’re clueless, let the poor thing be. Grab the delivery menu then come look at recipes with me.”

Phil unearthed the menu from underneath the pile of mail and photocopies on the coffee table, and dumped it in Clint’s lap while Clint passed him the laptop.

“Deviled eggs, lil’ smokies, pasta salad, lime jello marshmallow— Clint, what am I looking at here? Did the mission change? Do we have to infiltrate a church basement potluck now?”

“No, we have to infiltrate a Fourth of July potluck now, we can’t not go, Phil, not now.”

“I thought we’d just bring beer again.”

“I told Cassie that today in class, and you’d think I’d told her Santa didn’t exist. Apparently expectations were lower last time ‘cause we were new. I dunno— but after Cactus Guy Tad watered his forsythia after dark for us, and Cassie’s roommate? I’m a little scared either by how snoopy our neighbors are or how devious Cassie is, but either way I figure we should at least try to contribute to the potluck like the upstanding couple we’re pretending to be.”

“So good beer, then?”

“Phil.”

Phil sighed and looked back down at the laptop.

“I’m not sure any of these are going to get us there.”

“You look then, damnit. I’ll order.” 

Phil had finished looking through Clint’s tabbed recipes by the time he finished phoning in the order, but he was clearly unsatisfied.

“Everything that looks good also looks… beyond our cooking skills,” Phil sighed. “And I’m not sure where you got all this anyway? You just did a search for stereotypical midwestern picnic dishes from the 1970s?”

That was nearly exactly what Clint had done, as a matter of fact. It didn’t mean he couldn’t resent the frustration in Phil’s voice, though.

“Well I don’t know, do I? My life wasn’t exactly filled with picnics. Mom didn’t trust Dad at them, and the foster families mostly didn’t trust Barney and me at them. Mercenaries aren’t really potluck people, and the analysts somehow didn’t think this was a necessary part of my cover. So I don’t know, you tell me. What am I supposed to be looking for?”

Whatever effect Clint had intended his outburst to have, it wasn’t Phil’s face going soft about the edges, hurt riding in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he started, “I didn’t mean— “

Suddenly, Clint felt all his frustration drain away, leaving exhaustion.

“I know you didn’t,” he interrupted, putting his hand on Phil’s thigh to stop him. “It’s not you. I just… hate waiting, I guess.”

“You and me both,” Phil said wryly, and moved his own hand from the keyboard to cover Clint’s, patting it reassuringly. “Okay, let me think.” He put down the laptop and stared into the middle distance for a moment.

Clint waited.

And… waited.

And waited some more, realizing only after he’d started tapping his fingers that his hand was still on Phil’s thigh. He whipped it off.

“Phil?” he asked, as he saw the frown begin to creep onto Phil’s face.

“It is amazing that more agents don’t have their covers blown by shit like this,” Phil said at last, still staring into the distance. “I don’t know— we used to do chips and salsa or hummus at SHIELD events, but nobody has time to cook, you know? I feel like such a stereotypical bachelor all of a sudden.”

“You can’t be a bachelor. We’re married. Fake married.”

“Okay, okay, fine. This shouldn’t be so hard; we’re both competent adults. Um.”

He bit his lip, still staring at the curtains.

“How about your Mom,” Clint asked, trying to draw him out. “What did she usually do?”

“Mom?” Phil’s voice was distant, now, too. “Mom didn’t actually like to cook much— oh, but she had this raspberry dessert. Dad loved it.  _ I  _ loved it. She took it to everything. It was… creamy? Like raspberry chiffon only with cream cheese and chunks of berry? It was frozen and the crust was some kind of crumble— I don’t remember whether it was almond or Nilla wafers. Oh, I haven’t had that in  _ ages _ . I used to wait until no one was watching the table and then sneak bites, kind of shaving off the edges of the slices with a fork so no one would realize what I was doing— I thought. Once you’ve got one row of slices that’s about half the size of the next, I suspect people figure out what’s up.”

Clint tried to imagine young Phil, crouching under a table, fork in hand, grass-stains on his knees, and a devious smile on his face. Somehow he imagined grown Phil instead— it wasn’t like he had much practice picturing kid versions of people, okay. The resulting image was somehow simultaneously ridiculous and dangerously endearing.

“Okay, well, that sounds seriously good and thanks to you, we have an entire flat of raspberries,” Clint said. “So let’s do that.”

“Can’t.”

Phil closed his eyes and leaned back against the futon back, his mouth twisting up in a way that made Clint want to do drastic things to stop it. 

“Can’t?” Clint asked.

Phil shook his head.

“Can’t. I don’t know the recipe, don’t even know what it’s supposed to be called. Mom stopped making it when Dad died. She stopped a lot of things when Dad died— I think in some ways,  _ she _ just stopped.” 

He didn’t actually sound that sad about it, which was in many ways the worst part. Just… wistful. And then Phil squeezed his eyes tight, and Clint realized he was fighting tears. And he trusted Clint enough to let him see it. The realization stopped Clint’s breath for a moment.

“She… must have loved him a lot?” Clint tried, hearing it come out thin and unsupported. He wasn’t sure that was the right thing to say, but then again, was there a right thing to say? He couldn’t say “yeah, I miss my Mom too,” since while it was  _ true _ , it was kind of a different thing given what had happened to his parents.  He didn’t want to get into details and make Phil to think he was trying to do competitive grieving or something.

Phil sniffed once, and nodded.

“They were always Mom-and-Dad, you know? Partners. In retrospect, I’m not sure she ever learned how to handle the world alone after he died; she just endured it for another seven or so years and then she died too. She was there for me, for my schoolwork and activities and everything— but now that I think about it, I’m not sure she had much she wanted for herself anymore.”

He looked so open it was like he’d regressed in age, become a lost, scared kid again, the face Clint had been unable to imagine minutes before now far too clear. Clint risked cuddling closer and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Phil sagged into it. 

“I’m sorry, that sounds so lonely,” Clint said. At least Clint’d had Barney, who’d whisper stories to Clint about their mom while they laid together under the covers of Clint’s bed on the nights the loneliness got too big for his small body. What would he have done if, like Phil, there’d been no-one willing to help him remember?

Slowly, Phil came back from wherever he’d gone in his head and opening his eyes, staring up at Clint with a gaze that was a little watery and a lot stunned. Clint wasn’t sure what to do with that, so he went for wordless comfort, rubbing his thumb in little circles over Phil’s shoulder.

Phil sniffled again, then pulled himself upright.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to be a downer. I don’t usually talk about that. I don’t usually  _ remember  _ that. Arg— I need to just start avoiding the five-state area, if this is what coming back does to me. So. Where were we?”

“Uh, potluck?” Clint asked, trying to get his mental train to follow the hairpin curve Phil’s track had just taken. “You want me to get the laptop again?”

“Sure,” Phil said.

His voice sounded normal again, his face was set in its usual amiable blank— the same kind of weaponized bland Agent Coulson used in the field. Clint simultaneously wanted to slap it off him, and to whisper in his ear that Clint didn’t need to him to put on a brave face, ever. That he  _ should _ talk about his past, that Clint could help him remember. Since both of those options were bound to lead to Phil not speaking to him for the duration of the mission, he got the laptop instead and settled it over their thighs, starting to scroll through.

“Tell you what,” he said, “let’s see if there’s anything out there that uses kohlrabi.”

Phil’s laughter was weak, but so very, very welcome.

####

On Tuesday, the day before the 4th, Phil was deep in a stack of Dugan’s v-mail, sorting through it half on the prowl for more information on Peggy Carter’s movements in June of 1945 and half looking for something— anything— that would hint at more artifacts Clint might care about— when Jeffrey rolled up to him and sighed. It was a very loud, distracting sigh, the kind of sigh that might put up the hackles of anyone it was directed at, and his follow-up question wasn’t much better.

“You planning on lunch any time soon?” he asked, just as Phil was in the middle of trying to decipher something that might have been a redaction or just a smudge of the cheap ink.

Phil, of course, immediately lost the brilliant idea about what was under the black mark that had been about to pop into his head. 

“Not really planning on lunch, no,” Phil sighed, staring down at the v-mail in sadness. “I’m trying to get through this while I still can.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Clint that,” Jefferey said, and spun his chair around.

It took an absurdly long time for his words to register, but when they did Phil felt his heart seize. 

“Wait, what?” he yelped, pulling himself up on the surrounding shelves and heading for Jefferey’s desk. “Did Clint call?”

Clint never called. Had something happened? Did he finally crack the secret of Temple B? Was there another missing student? Was Schunk back?

“Not exactly,” Clint said, from where he was leaning against Jeffrey’s desk and looking amused. “Sorry to interrupt you, babe.”

There was something almost too rakish about his smile, and as Phil watched he ran his hand over the back of his neck in his habitual nervous gesture. It stopped Phil’s heart the way it’d started to do so frequently it was likely the SHIELD doctors were going to diagnose him with arrhythmia when he got home. 

It also reminded him they never  _ had  _ had that conversation about whether Friday night had been a one-time thing. Probably that was better. Probably it was too late. Probably also Phil should stop staring at Clint like he was starving and Clint was a buffet table, and someone had just handed him an empty plate.

His stomach, apparently reminded by the metaphor that it was actually lunchtime, rumbled. 

“Ah,” Phil said, looking down at it ruefully as Clint snickered, “I guess I’m planning on lunch after all. If you are?”

“That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Moore. If you’ll allow me?” He held out his arm with elaborate politeness, and Phil took it with equal ceremony.

As they left the archives, Phil heard Jeffrey laughing himself sick behind them.

They passed up through the library and out onto the quad, where the sun was already far too hot and the grass was almost arrogantly green. Phil let Clint lead, all too aware of Clint’s body next to his, shirt already damp from the humidity and skin slick with sweat. It was a surprisingly enjoyable feeling. Perhaps this was another sign Phil was getting used to being hopelessly in love with someone who didn’t love him.

It wouldn’t be so bad, this little hitch in his chest every time he saw Clint, the proprietary feeling every time Clint did something spectacular like smile at him. Even if Clint didn’t know it, Phil at least would go through his days feeling excited whenever Clint showed up. It made the prospect of post-op briefings suddenly much more bearable. And he’d have the memory of—

“Ford! Duck!” 

Phil slammed out of his daydream and back to reality, dropping reflexively and pulling Clint to the ground with him. A frisbee zipped over the space where their heads had been a moment before. Phil watched it go, his arm still tight over Clint’s shoulders and Clint’s bookbag on the ground, papers scattered all over.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Tess said from above them. 

“Not your fault,” Clint told her, levering himself into a squat so he could meet her eyes. “I take it that was the frant guys at my five o’clock?”

Phil only half listened to their conversation, too busy trying to still the hammering in his heart. At least Tess would put his reaction down to being ex-mil. He wished he could do the same.

“Ick, I can’t, Tess,” Clint was saying when he checked back in. “We’re already booked. We’ve got a neighborhood potluck thing.”

“Too bad— it’s a spectacular view from up there. Text me if you change your mind— or want to skip out early.”

“Doesn’t security get mad if you’re on the roof? I don’t think we need another black mark from Schunk.”

“Eh,” Tess shrugged. “Security is usually on their own roof— it’s got even better sightlines for the show. They’re easy to avoid if you know their patterns. Anyway, I better get going. Phil, good seeing you in less, uh, you know. Circumstances.”

“Likewise,” Phil said to her retreating back. He looked around at the contents of Clint’s backpack, which Clint was already trying to pick up, and grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

“Naw, Mr. Moore,” Clint said, “I appreciate your reflexes. Never know when someone’s gonna weaponize a Frisbee. Anyway I may be thick-headed but I still don’t like taking one off the temple at high speed.”

“You’re not thick-headed,” Phil started out, then stopped when he realized what he was looking at. “Clint?”

He sat down on the grass, holding the print outs in his hand. They were all recipes, either from the web or copied out of recipe books. As he shuffled through, he found three or four different kinds of raspberry chiffons or creams, some made with cream cheese, some with cool-whip or whipped cream, some with marshmallows— even one with coconut cream (ick). 

“Uh, I’ve got the crusts over here,” Clint said, holding up another sheaf. “Surprise?”

“Um.” Phil looked down at the papers again, at the pictures of raspberry desserts in various shades of pink, studded with fruit or glossily smooth. None of them, mercifully, looked exactly like his mother had made them. But his eyes started to prickle suspiciously anyway.

“I just figured, maybe we could re-create it, if we put some of these together? Only I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like so I thought I could grab you for lunch and we could look together, so you can tell me what works? Also, I’m not gonna be able to, you know, improvise this on my own. But it just. I just…” Clint trailed off, sounding equal parts defensive and tentative, like he didn’t know if Phil was going to hit him or break down crying.

Phil himself wasn’t sure.

The crying was an option, mostly because he felt ambushed with grief. 

It wouldn’t be the first time— as much as he tried not to think about it, as he prided himself on having processed his emotions and gotten on with life, this was far from the first time grief had hit him suddenly. He was sure it wouldn’t be the last— especially not given how this mission seemed to be dredging up memories he’d thought long buried.

It was the other part that scared him more, the part where Clint had  _ seen  _ him, the night before, when the grief and the fear had been new. The part where, when Clint had responded only with  _ that sounds so lonely _ , Phil had looked at Clint and thought, just for a moment,  _ not lonely anymore.  _ If Phil had any luck left, after several decades of dodging disaster in the field, hopefully it had been working at that moment, and Clint had no idea what he’d been thinking.

“I just thought, you shouldn’t have to lose something like that,” Clint was saying, looking at Phil with the world in his eyes. “Not if I could give it back to you.”

Phil shuddered. It was a typically Clint gesture, so absurdly generous. It would be downright cruel to refuse it, even if it made Phil feel hollow inside. He handed the papers back to Clint, then put a hand under his elbow, helping them both rise. Once they were dusted off, he slipped his arm through Clint’s again.

“Well, we do have a whole entire flat of raspberries,” he said, proud that his voice didn’t break. “What’s your plan?”

####

The cooperative certainly liked a good bonfire— and apparently as many bottle rockets and sparklers as it could stuff in childrens’ chubby and not-safety-conscious hands. And also, apparently—

“Is that even legal?” Clint asked, staring at the firework whistling its way skyward.

“No clue,” Phil replied, looking so calm Clint was sure he was trying to restart his heart.

“Oh,” Cassie glanced over at them from her position right next to them at the dessert table, “oh shit you guys— is this like a trigger or something? I guess in your line of— former line of— Should I… I can see if they can cool it till the display.”

Clint forced himself to breathe calmly and looked back down at her. Her eyes were big in the low light, limpid, and he reminded himself that she was just trying to be kind. And she was referring to their covers, not their jobs.

“We’ll be okay,” he told her gently. “Just could have used a warning first.”

“Still,” Cassie said, “they can cool it. They’re just gonna blow their fingers off.” 

She set off across the grass, leaving Clint alone with Phil, who was— Clint thought— nearly as dangerous to him as explosives. He could have used a warning— a Phil warning— before he’d come out of the shower early that afternoon and come downstairs. No one should have been expected to endure the sight of Phil in his jeans and his light cotton shirt, absent-mindedly getting down to Otis Redding as he read the newspaper. 

That image had been burned into Clint’s retinas just as thoroughly as the firework. 

So had the image of Phil, when they’d cut into the raspberry dessert they’d finally produced, taking the first piece— the one that always fell apart— and sighing as he took a bite, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“It’s not… it’s not Mom’s,” he’d murmured to Clint. “But my god it’s… um, it’s….” 

That was where his words had petered out, but Cassie had filled in for him, her mouth already full of fork and food.

“Really fucking good,” she’d said.

Phil’d nodded, then given Clint a smile so watery it made Clint’s knees wobble in sympathy. 

That had been hours ago, and Phil had recovered quickly under the onslaught of grilled meats, potato and pasta salads, jello, watermelons and deviled eggs. Also, the sheer quantity of beer Clint had helped him consume.

“Helped,” both in that Clint kept passing him new beers, and in that Clint kept drinking half of them, only sometimes remembering to take them out of Phil’s hand. It had seemed like the best way to keep Phil’s mind off both his past and the random explosions— it was certainly helping  _ Clint  _ feel less jumpy. 

They’d settled in to a pleasant buzzed state, wandering around the picnic largely in tandem, hands never far from each other. Clint had stopped caring whether it was all for the op or not, it was just so nice. The air smelled like his childhood, all charcoal smoke and firecracker, meat and beer, DEET and citronella. The difference was he was  _ here _ this time, not stuck indoors watching from a window or sneaking under tables to swipe any cocktail weenie that wandered too close to the edge of a table. 

He was welcome here, in the circle of the bonfire and the circle of Phil’s arms. And maybe it was just a dream, but it was a really nice one. He felt nostalgic for it already, even though he was still in the middle of living it— or maybe that was the beer again.

It was certainly the beer that made him slow to recognize Milo, when he saw the man’s round face peeking at him from the lilac bushes that flanked the community kitchen. At first, Milo’s features blurred and made him look more like a monkey leering from the leaves. Then he beckoned again, and Clint realized he was just the same old Milo as ever, looking prematurely curmudgeonly, and that he needed them to come quietly.

Clint caught Phil’s attention, and jerked his head at the lilac bush.

“What?” Phil asked, then froze, just for a moment. “Oh, uh, hey I wanna check out the beanbag toss, you want to come with, babe?”

Clint let himself be led, and they wandered vaguely bush-ward, burbling about the merits of lawn games.

It was no good; they were ten feet away when seven shrieking children ran past, leaping over the bean bag board, and off into the crowd. When they looked back, Milo was gone.

“Oh, bean bags!” Cassie said, from just behind Clint, “kick ass!”

From her attempted throw, Clint assumed she’d drunk at least twice as much as he had— or found something a lot stronger.

Milo re-appeared at Clint’s elbow later on, as he and Phil were watching Cassie’s roommates attempt to get bottle rockets to stand up right in empty cans of Leinie’s. 

“Ugh,” he said, which was the first Clint knew he was there. “Clint.”

“Milo,” Clint hissed back, “what?”

“Gotta talk to you.” He looked around and leaned closer.

“So talk,” Clint said, a little more impatiently than he intended. But then, Phil’d squeezed his hip to keep him in place when Clint had leaned over, and about half his brain power had suddenly diverted elsewhere.

“Not here. Too many— ugh— listeners. Meet me—” 

“Hey, Ford, catch!” Someone called.

Clint turned reflexively, just in time to catch the beer can headed his way.

“What?” he said faintly, as Dr. Jones sauntered up.

“Looked like you could use a refill,” she shrugged. “Hey, how did things go with Schunk this week? I assume you got a visit.”

Clint explained how things had gone with Schunk, redacting certain parts of their neighbors testimony.

Jones nodded judiciously.

“Good for you” she said, meaning the alibis and not that he had fucked Phil. At least— Clint hoped that was what she’d meant. 

By the time she wandered off a few minutes later, Milo was, of course, gone again. 

“Ugh,” Clint told Phil, who looked a question back at him. “Lost Milo again. Swear he wants to tell me something, but whenever someone comes close— like Jones just now— he skeddadles.”

“Interesting,” Phil agreed. “And inconvenient timing— also, did we ever figure out if Jones lives around here?”

“Cassie swears she doesn’t. Could’ve fooled me, the way she’s everywhere we turn.” So much so that it was starting to get a little suspicious. But since Clint couldn’t figure out what to do with that here at the picnic, he set the line of thought aside.

“Huh. You know,” Phil said. Clint waited for him to finish the sentence, but he didn’t. He just looked at Clint for a little while, then turned away to watch a sparkler go. His conversation had been getting shorter and shorter, and a couple times now Clint had caught him staring, like Clint was a puzzle he was trying to put together. 

The evening wore on in a blur, the raspberry dessert dwindled down to crumbs, and Milo re-appeared twice more, only to be driven off first by Cassie and then by Cactus Guy Tad coming up to talk to them.

And the whole time, the whole entire time, he stayed attached to Phil, like he’d been stapled there. His awareness of Phil’s  body was growing by the minute, until he felt like he could probably map every chest hair and freckle on the man without even looking at him or undressing him. It was a surprisingly pleasant feeling, but then that was entirely in line with the night.

They never  _ had _ talked about having more nights before mornings after. At the moment, Clint was struggling to remember why not. He knew he’d been scared of what might happen, or else of what Phil might say. But that seemed silly in the gathering twilight, with Phil smiling down at him as they stood on the edge of the crowd, his thumb moving in small circles at the small of Clint’s back.

His face looked so soft in the twilight, the look in his eyes so fond, it was hard to bear. It was hard to imagine Phil saying he didn’t want Clint at all, had no interest in another go around, with that face. So what was Clint scared of? That Phil would somehow see his face and know the truth? Look deep into his eyes and read there  _ Clint Barton is pathetically in love with you _ ? 

Put that way, Clint decided he’d just been cock-blocking himself. That wordless communication shit only happened in bad novels. Maybe he couldn’t have this forever— or for real— but if tonight was an extended dream, if Driftless was their bubble universe, then for a little— 

Clint leaned in.

Phil leaned in too, his lips parting, head tilting, his breath soft and boozy on Clint’s as they closed—

“Hey Clint,” Milo said, from underneath the bench next to them.

“ _ Ugh _ ” Clint replied.

And then the bottle rocket hit with a squeal, just at their feet, and they sprang apart.

“I give up,” Clint said sourly, after realizing Milo had once again disappeared. “If he wants to talk to us that bad he can stop creeping and text like a civilized person. I— god _ damn!” _

Having evidently decided it was finally dark enough, several of the neighbors had gone back to setting off the larger fireworks. 

“I think we’ve stayed long enough here, don’t you?” Phil asked, kindly not mentioning that Clint had just clutched his arms with both hands, preparatory to throwing him to the ground.

Clint contemplated the scene. He didn’t want it to end— this out-of-time time with Phil. But if people were going to keep exploding things in their vicinity, he wasn’t going to get much choice.

“Want to go home?” he asked Phil, turning— and found himself unexpectedly caught in Phil’s gaze again.

“Yeah,” Phil said softly, still staring at him, his hand gone gentle where it was placed over Clint’s on his warm arm. “That is, if—”

“If?” Clint asked, when Phil broke off to stare fixedly at his lips.

“If you don’t mind missing the fireworks,” Phil continued.

Clint knew he should probably think about it, make the decision rationally. But honestly, just for the night, rationality could go suck it.  Actually… no.  _ Rationality _ didn’t get to suck anything. Clint, on the other hand….

“I’m not gonna miss ‘em,” he said, leaning over to kiss Phil. 

They both groaned into it, like they’d been starving for centuries, and when Phil pulled away, he smiled that same nostalgic little smile he’d worn all evening.

“Then I won’t miss them either,” he said.

They went home, arm in arm, down the sidewalk to their front door, and let themselves in. As they closed the door behind them, the municipal fireworks display was just starting to light up the night sky, from somewhere off on a bluff to the north of them. Closer in, the co-op display reached its peak, arcing silver and blue and red and green over the rooftops of the townhouses and fizzling out.

Clint didn’t notice; he was too busy undressing Phil as Phil walked backwards up the stairs towards their bed, that smile unwavering and his hands intent.

####

It was a bad idea, some part of Phil knew that— not his heart and his dick, which had formed an unholy alliance and were apparently making the decisions for his entire body now, but  _ a  _ part. He’d made so many bad decisions about Clint, though, since before this mission was even a twinkle in Nick Fury’s remaining eye, that one more didn’t seem likely to make a difference.

Or so Phil told himself as Clint sank to his knees in front of him, already removing his boxers. He’d already unbuttoned Phil’s shirt on the trip up the stairs. Since Phil had never been that big a fan of the shirt-but-no-pants look on himself, he pulled his off, tossing it in the general direction of the hamper to land on top of the jeans he’d shucked off while Clint was in the bathroom. 

Clint stopped to look up, his eyes wide in the dim light and his mouth hanging open.

“Jesus,” he said, trailing one hand up Phil’s stomach, tangling his fingers in Phil’s chest hair. “Look at you.”

“I— “  _ can’t _ , Phil was about to say, then realized that wasn’t true; they were on the opposite side of the bed from the mirror, but in its line of sight. He risked a glance. Yes, there he was, hairy and mostly nude, his boxers pushed down to his knees. But there was Clint, too, gazing up at him, his own shirt gone, his hands on either side of Phil’s hips, and his neck arched. Through some reflected glory, he made Phil look sexy, too.

It was too hard to look at for long, not with alcohol and the night air muddling Phil’s thoughts. He was far too likely to let something slip, something that wasn’t at all appropriate to the simple exchange of orgasms they’d negotiated on Friday. He turned back to Clint instead, running a hand through his hair.

“Look at  _ you _ ,” he returned, his voice so gruff it almost disappeared. 

Clint swallowed hard, and for a moment Phil thought he had seen after all. But no, Clint was clearly just preparing himself, because he promptly leaned in, circled his hand around Phil’s dick, and swallowed it down. He moaned a little, like he’d just tasted the most delicious thing ever, and the sound of it hit Phil harder than the rub of Clint’s tongue against his head. 

“Oh—  _ God _ — he managed. “Fuck. Clint.”

That got him a smug little chuckle— though Clint’s mouth was still occupied.

Phil closed his eyes and reached out to hold on to Clint’s head better. Which was why he wasn’t fully prepared when Clint raised himself up a little, shifted his hands, and shoved Phil backwards onto the bed. Clint went with— or mostly with— his lips never quite leaving Phil although the head of Phil’s dick brushed against the back of his teeth. 

Phil found himself staring up at the ceiling fan as Clint resettled himself between his knees and went to town. The heat of his mouth, the way he sucked, gently, as he moved up and down, the wet sweep of his tongue— they were all so, so very good. But the best part was that it was  _ Clint _ doing it, demonstrably Clint, so dear to him and seemingly so content to be deep-throating his not inconsiderable length like it was a priority mission. 

He’d never been quite so moved, before, by someone’s obvious desire for him. It was almost better than Clint’s lips themselves.

In fact, it was too good, and Phil had to take his hands off Clint’s hair and cover his face, just long enough to press all the feelings back inside. He breathed in the damp air behind his cupped palms as Clint licked up his dick and slid his fingers along to press down behind his balls, wriggling until he found the spot that made Phil buck in his hands. He’d never felt this anxiety to be pleased, to feel good  _ for _ his lover, to let them know how much they turned him on, in his life. It was scary as hell.

He couldn’t keep this, Phil reminded himself. This wasn’t his— Clint wasn’t his. He couldn’t keep this, so he didn’t have to panic. He could feel this tonight, he could  _ have _ it tonight, and it wouldn’t turn into something he couldn’t handle, something permanent. He’d ride this out, finish the mission, and get his heart back to safety.

But for one night… for one more night….

Phil put his hands down on the bed, pushed his hips up, straining with the whole length of his body to keep himself inside Clint, warm and surrounded and electric. He moaned again, a long, thin sound, and couldn’t bring himself to care.

Clint pulled off, pushing urgently at Phil’s knees to get him further onto the bed, then climbed up after him.

“That’s it, Phil,” he murmured, sounding hoarse and eager at once, “that’s it, let me hear you do that, I wanna see that—” he dipped back down for another lick, then nuzzled his nose into Phil’s crotch. “Wanna hear you, god, Phil you sound, I need—” 

What he needed was apparently Phil’s dick back in his mouth, because he cut himself off mid-sentence to get it. The new position, hovering over Phil, gave him greater range of motion, and he used it to his advantage, setting up a rhythm of sucks and bobs, using both hands to explore between Phil’s legs, drifting down his thighs, tugging his balls, nudging his perineum with wickedly-timed knuckles.

Phil panted, wriggled, and tried to find a good place for his hands, moving them frantically between Clint’s head, the sheets, his own nipples, and finally reaching back to clutch the opposite end of the mattress, just to keep them still. His hips were shaking— his whole body was shaking, every nerve tingling to the rhythm of Clint’s mouth and hands. He was winding tighter, tighter, like a clock spring coiling, and he felt Clint’s hands roam his thighs, his stomach, feeling the tension build in his muscles and humming his approval.

He was going to come. Any minute now, it was finally going to spill over, break apart, just a bit more, if he could hold on just a little tighter, the release was gonna be— 

Clint looked up at him, still sucking, and smiled a little around his mouthful, so satisfied and fond and Phil—

Phil couldn’t.

He couldn’t come— no, he couldn’t come like  _ this _ , where Clint could see him, hear him— he flung one arm over his face, tried to hide in the crook of his arm.

“Oh god, Clint, so good, you— I l—”

_ Shit _ .

No, no he couldn’t—

“Don’t wanna come,” he moaned. “Too close— can’t—”

Clint took him deeper, pressed his hips down, clearly disagreeing. But Clint didn’t know— no, Clint couldn’t know, that was why— he had to stop— he didn’t ever want to stop—

With the last of his willpower, Phil managed to reach down and pull Clint up, scooting his hips away before Clint could go looking for another taste.

“What—” Clint said, as Phil grabbed him and flung him against the pillows, so that he sprawled on his back with his knees up and spread. “Phil, no, I want— you need to come.”

“Soon,” Phil promised him, taking a moment to hover over him, kiss the taste of his own skin off Clint’s lips, lick his musk out of Clint’s mouth. “Need to do something first.”

He dove back down, wishing he had time to kiss his way down Clint’s body but knowing he had to get his face hidden fast.

“Tell me if you don’t want—” he said as he settled himself between Clint’s legs. He cupped Clint’s buttcheeks, hoisted Clint’s thighs over his shoulders, and buried his face in the bounty of Clint’s ass.

“Holy— holy  _ shit _ , _ ”  _ Clint yelped, but it was an encouraging sort of yelp. He struggled for a moment, more to get himself into a comfortable position than to move away.

Phil took that for encouragement, and let himself open Clint’s cheeks further, nuzzling in and sending an exploratory sweep of tongue across his entrance.

“Ohmygod,” Clint responded, as his legs twitched reflexively, thighs brushing Phil’s ears. “OhmygodohgodohPhilgodthat’s good. That’s. Shit.”

His hands had moved down to clutch the sheets hard, and his body was already trembling a little— and Phil was barely started.

“Hmm,” Phil said, smiling into it, knowing that Clint would feel it and squirm— which he did. He went for it in earnest then, licking up Clint’s perineum, nipping delicately at the backside of his balls, then dropping back down to give attention to Clint’s rim, sweeping in slow circles around it. It grew soft and wet under his tongue, beginning to loosen— so fast to respond to so little attention, so generous— like Clint himself. (Phil heard himself think that, winced, and decided that maybe ridiculous metaphors were another unfortunate side effect of love.)

Clint whined as if he’d completely forgotten they had two shared walls, high and desperate, and interspersed it with curses and pleas. At one point, he said breathlessly, and somewhat at random:

“So fucking glad I cleaned up, jesus,” and Phil stopped rimming him long enough to look up and laugh, a little helpless. 

Clint caught his eye, his face scrunched and desperately red— his entire chest was red and shining with sweat— and the angle odd as Phil peeped at him over his fairly impressive hard-on.

“You what?” he asked.

“Party was long,” Clint explained. “Didn’t think swamp ass would be, uh, god, what’re you doing with your fingers? Sexy. But… no, don’t  _ stop, god _ — wasn’t sure you wouldn’t, uh, chicken out, if I didn’t get you down my throat immediately.”

“Do I look like I chickened out?” Phil asked, propping his chin on Clint’s dick so that he could smile down at him. It set Clint off into a fit of giggles. 

“Get back down there,” he managed— and so Phil did.

He didn’t see a point in mentioning that he’d gone downstairs while Clint was in the bathroom on a hunt for the lube— only to shove it underneath the covers just before Clint came into the bedroom. He hadn’t chickened out of  _ this _ after all, just the idea of anal sex. It seemed way too complicated for a night like this, and way too constricting. He didn’t want to be pinned anywhere that would make him vulnerable to Clint seeing too much.

Still, his face was safely buried in Clint’s behind now, far away from prying eyes, and Clint was responding so beautifully, and there  _ were _ other things you could do with lube than just shove your dick in someone’s— anyway. He gave Clint’s hole an experimental push with his tongue, and it opened like a dream. Clint sobbed above him, and his heels drummed at Phil’s back once, twice, as Phil wriggled.

Definitely ready, then. Phil reached up to push a pillow under Clint’s ass as he kept going, then slid a thumb along Clint’s rim, getting lost for a moment in the delight of feeling Clint writhe and tremble as his tongue continued to push. He pulled his face back and thrust his thumb in, just to the first knuckle.

“Hold my place,” he told Clint, and pulled back to go searching for the lost lube.

“What?” Clint squeaked. “Hold— what?”

Phil cracked the lube, slicked up the fingers that went along with the thumb, then settled back in. 

“Hold this,” he said, placing the lube on Clint’s bellybutton. He dove back down, using his thumb to drag Clint’s rim open enough that he could wiggle another finger in, just far enough to catch his— there, yes, the lube bounced off Clint and onto the sheets at Clint’s sudden buck. Phil brushed his prostate again, nearly giddy at Clint’s reaction, then brought his face back down. He licked around Clint’s now stretched hole, lingering where his fingers and Clint’s rim met, then reached up to broaden his tongue’s arc while starting to thrust and twist, just a little, with his fingers, never reaching much further than the first knuckle.

“Christ— Phil—” Clint said. “What are you. That’s. Killing me, babe. I can’t. Are you trying to? Cause I won’t last.”

“Neither— fuck— neither will I,” Phil replied. And it was true— while he hadn’t been neglecting it precisely he hadn’t been paying much attention to his dick either. Nevertheless it was so hard it was getting hard to ignore, and his hips were beginning to rock in rhythm with his fingers. There was no way he’d last long enough to get inside Clint and it still would just— he didn’t want his face near Clint’s, didn’t want to be seen. Just wanted to stay buried where he was forever. 

“Then wh—”

“Want you to come on my fingers,” Phil told him. “Want you to come so hard my hands hurt tomorrow.”

He wriggled them further and nibbled at one butt cheek, and Clint groaned.

“Kay,” he said. “I can. I can do. That. Yep. God. Just. Lube?”

Lube. Yes. Right. Where—

Phil found it, reached up to give it to Clint— then reconsidered and slicked his own hand up before tossing it in Clint’s general direction.

He waited until Clint’d slicked up, still rimming him and fingering him alternately, before reaching down to grab his own dick just as Clint grabbed his. 

Oh—  _ oh _ — it was not going to take long at all. Phil couldn’t remember a time he’d been this turned on just from having his face in someone’s ass. (Though, to be fair, he didn’t get to do it that often, and never before without a dental dam. But up-to-date medical files had been part of their pre-op briefing, and Jasper’s sense of verisimilitude hadn’t extended to barrier methods— or else he was way more invested in the “do Clint Ford and Phil Moore go bareback” question than Phil ever wanted to know.) And saran wrap was a mood-killer. Phil knew. From experience.

He tried to match the rhythm of his hand to Clint’s, which was working in a kind of counterpoint to Phil’s fingers on his prostate. Face down, surrounded by Clint-scent and Clint-skin and Clint in general, Phil finally felt free, let himself go. Let himself memorize Clint’s taste, the way he trembled and his voice started to break and go high, the way his ass clenched and arched as he neared his finish, the way his pleasure doubled and tripled Phil’s.  _ Love _ , he mouthed against Clint’s hole, and  _ gorgeous _ he murmured into the crease of his thigh. When the tears started, he nuzzled in and wiped them off against Clint’s skin, letting them get lost in the general wetness. It was all right; he was buried, head-deep, and safe.

“God, oh Phil, oh fuck it’s gonna be soon— I’ve— you’ve got to— oh baby, please, come up come  _ here,  _ come—” 

Clint doubled up, grabbed him by the hair, then shoulder, and heaved him upwards. 

Cold air flushed his face, and confusion broke through the haze of want, and Clint, and love.

He went, knowing everything was written plain as day on his face, and helpless to do anything about it.

 

####

Vaguely, through the spiraling lust, the unbearably intense sensations Phil was creating in and around his ass, and the desperate fondness that had him nearly weeping, Clint realized he was about to come and nothing he could do was going to stop it. It felt like Phil was close, too, from the way his breaths against Clint’s ass were starting to get ragged.

Clint was determined to see Phil’s face this time when Phil came. He couldn’t have said why it was so important— that would have required a level of self-reflection way beyond his current state. He just knew he had to. It was like he needed it for life to be complete— like seeing the Grand Canyon levels of monumental.

He was going to know what Phil Coulson’s face looked like when he came  _ for Clint—  _ even if it destroyed him.

Which it nearly did.

He didn’t notice first— he was too focused on getting Phil up, getting his face next to Clint’s, without losing the fingers up his ass, to register anything else.

But then he’d gotten what he wanted— Phil up parallel to him, kind of half on him and half draped over his side, his fingers still curled up inside Clint and his other hand still jerking himself off— and he took a moment to look as much as he wanted.

And the look on Phil’s face was… oh, indescribable. 

Wide and vulnerable and— were those tear tracks, the fuck?— and full of so much… of so much….

Maybe Clint was in a bad novel after all, because he  _ knew that look _ . He knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

He asked anyway.

“Oh my god babe, you— what?” he said, or rather croaked. 

His voice came out cracked between lust and whatever the emotion was that was choking him. He’d meant to say more, but he’d forgotten to stop jerking off and Phil’s fingertips had landed on his prostate. And Phil was still giving him that look, that open, hungry look like Phil was desperate, like he needed to eat Clint whole or else he’d starve— 

That was it. 

That was what put him over the edge, with a desperate whine. The only thing he could do was fling his head back and squeeze his eyes shut, trying to avoid the unbearable intensity of Phil’s face, while he came— and  _ came _ , and came some more, sensation rolling over him in waves. Somewhere in there he heard Phil groan, felt the splash on his hip as Phil started coming too, his face buried in Clint’s shoulder. 

It was all Clint could do not to sob out loud— at least not to sob anything more than another faint “oh god, baby, oh god.”

And then it was over, and they had to face it. Clint felt Phil go still on top of him, already wary. He had to breathe deep once, twice, forcing himself out of post-climax light-headedness, before he could make himself turn his head back and open his eyes.

Phil must have been watching him, because he winced, and tried to hide his face.

“What the fuck was that?” Clint asked, not that surprised when it came out like a plea. “Phil? What— did you. Do… you… what?”

“I’m sorry,” Phil said miserably, his face still buried. Then he turned it up towards Clint and no, no that was worse. His eyes were wide and dark and his face was far too open, far too filled with something that Clint could only read as bewildered betrayal. And— and something else, the thing that Clint hadn’t bargained on at all. 

Something Clint had seen before, on other faces. On Bobbi’s face, back at the beginning of their relationship. That softness that got him every time, that pulled him in deep— and that never lasted.

“Yeah,” Clint said, “I’m sorry, too.”

Phil nodded, then his face crumpled further, into confusion.

“But— I— ” he rasped. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t think you would— ” he heaved a sigh and tried to scoot further from Clint— which didn’t work that well, considering his fingers were still up Clint’s ass and his arm was tangled with Clint’s thigh. “I didn’t think I mattered—  _ it _ mattered— to you,” he finished miserably. 

“Well, it does.” And oh, here came the tears, goddammit. Crying while coming would have been bad enough, but this? “You do and it does, as it turns out.” 

“Then why the hell did you want to do this in the first place? Why make like it was just, just… tension release?” Phil hissed. 

Clint almost welcomed the weak spurt of anger in his voice; it was so much easier to bear than the tenderness. It made sense— god knew Clint was mad at his past self, too. He’d known he would screw it up, if he tried for more with Phil. He knew himself. Just a fact of life.

He hadn’t expected Phil to do some of the screwing himself, though— literally, given what his fingers had just been doing. Phil didn’t get to pin this  _ all _ on him.

“Because I trusted you!” he cried. “You were supposed to be the calm one, you were supposed to have it together. I could just try and ride it out and get over you, and you’d… you’d never know. It was supposed to be okay because you always have it together. Goddamn it Phil.” He flung his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as he tried to control himself. “This is such a mess.”

“Yes,” Phil said, “I can’t argue with that.”

After a moment, Clint felt Phil’s finger trace over the pool of drying come on his hip, and gave a bitter laugh. 

“Go get a rag or something.”

Phil did, removing his fingers from Clint at last, with an audible little slurp, before disentangling himself and getting off the bed. Clint kept his eyes determinedly closed, refusing to try and guess where Phil was, where he’d gone. He tried to convince himself that the ache in his chest, like the one in his ass, the hole that refused to close, was just because of recent use. It’d shrink back up soon.

He stayed silent as Phil came back, running a washcloth over his hip, his belly, his thighs, and his butt-cheeks, before disappearing. It was scratchy, shockingly cold against his sore ass. Clint couldn’t help a wince, but muttered a thank you. When Phil left again, he scooted over to his side of the bed and under the covers.

After a long moment, in which Clint had plenty of time to contemplate the nature of his own stupidity, the mattress creaked and Phil climbed back into bed. He settled in on his side, tugging the sheet up and then the blanket, rearranging things, shifting, turning this way and that. Clint finally decided they weren’t going to talk more, and was about to reach for his hearing aids to take them out, when Phil said:

“I don’t suppose it worked? Did you… did you fuck me out of your system?”

“No,” Clint admitted miserably. 

“Oh.”

It was so small, that  _ oh _ .

Smaller still, came:

“Yeah, me either.”

The admission hit Clint like a ton of bricks— or else his own exhaustion did.

“Talk in the morning?” he asked. 

After a pause, he felt Phil nod.

“In the morning…. Goodnight, Indy?”

“Goodnight,” Clint choked out, aware he was tearing up again, “Mr. Moore.”

They both rolled over, to opposite sides of the bed. Clint took out his aids. Phil put on his mask. They turned out their lights.

And Clint pretended to sleep, pretended for hours until finally he felt the faint growl from Phil that suggested the opera neighbors had started their nightly concert.

For some reason, that soothed Clint enough that he finally, finally gave up and tipped over into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on E-rated scenes: Clint was wrong: you can absolutely give away your ardent regard for another person just by how you look at him. Phil certainly did. So did Clint. And now they're distressed, worn out, and have decided to talk about it in the morning.
> 
> Next Time: When things go haywire, they really, really go haywire. The next chapter will (likely) post June 9 or 10. (Just... as a general note, you guys are aware of my tendency to drop cliffhangers in the run-up to the climax, right? Good.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traps: sprung. Cliffs: hung. Feels: wrung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we begin the climactic portion of the story. Please buckle your safety belts and keep hands, feet, and small children inside the ride at all times.
> 
> Even more than usual, my thanks to LauraKaye for the rigorous, very firm, very necessary beta. This wouldn't be half the story that it is without you.

Why he’d thought he could possibly sleep, Phil had no clue. Maybe the post-orgasm lassitude had lulled him into thinking he could slip into unconsciousness before his mind blinked back on and started obsessing. He’d been wrong, of course— his mind was way ahead of him. And now it was two AM and he was only pretending to be asleep, while his brain replayed the Clint’s hurt look when he’d lifted Phil’s face up and caught him with all his love still showing. Occasionally, just for a change, he’d hear the broken tone of Clint’s voice instead. Or the desperate longing in Clint’s eyes— the longing  _ for Phil _ — in the instant before Clint had realized Phil was longing, too. Every time he remembered that look, Phil’s breath tried to stop— except that the damned C-PAP prevented it and he ended up snorting and gasping. 

He hadn’t expected to be loved _back,_ not when he’d worn himself out trying to prevent it. Fat lot of good that’d done him— all that goddamn quinoa and Clint had still ended up falling for him. Which was Clint all over, honestly, always doing the last thing he expected. And if Phil’d been less compromised, maybe he would have taken that into account. He’d spent so much time trying first to avoid falling for Clint, then designing a life spent in love with someone unattainable. Maybe it should have occurred to him to have a contingency plan in place just in case of accidental requitedness. 

If only he’d had a plan, maybe he could have slept instead of spending the small hours of the night staring into the dark, grumbling at the rising notes of _ la Traviata _ , and completely failing to form a coherent thought. He finally drifted off some time after  _ Sempre Libra _ , with the half-coherent thought that Violetta could declare herself a free spirit all she wanted, the fact remained she opened Act 2 desperately in love and shacked up… not that unlike himself.

He hoped neither he nor Clint were going to follow it up by dying of tuberculosis.

When he finally succumbed to exhaustion, he dreamt of Clint doing exactly that, face pale and surrounded by daylilies as he breathed his last in Alexander Pierce’s arms. As Clint went still and lifeless, Pierce looked up at Phil and said “it’s too bad you have to go, too.” And then Phil had been at Clint’s wake, holding Pierce’s hand as they stared at a buffet entirely composed of raspberry dessert and chutney. A man had loomed over the table, so big his head disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling. “Is all kinds chutney, bro,” the man had said, like it was a warning or a talisman. “Chutney for everyone. When you die? They make you into chutney. Where did leetle Phil go? Ah, no more chutney for him, not ever.” 

At which point, Phil woke up, sweating, nauseous, and with a vague determination never to eat chutney again.

The rest of the night he spent mostly lying there in silence, his mind finally too worn out to spin.

He got up before dawn, trying not to think, not to look at Clint (he failed— there was Clint on the far side of the bed, curled up on himself, the line of his spine defensive). Went to the bathroom, got himself dressed for a run, gone downstairs— and then he stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the lopsided futon, for a good fifteen minutes before he finally forced himself to go into the kitchen and start coffee. 

At some point they were going to have to talk about it. They couldn’t just avoid the subject for a week like they had last time— look how that had ended up. Given how weak Phil’d proven he was where Clint was concerned, he couldn’t afford not to have a plan. Or  _ plans _ , for every conceivable reaction Clint might have. 

Which meant he had to face the idea Clint might want something permanent.  _ Why _ ? Did Clint think it would be just like they were now, just… an indefinite extension of Clint Ford and Phillip Moore?

He and Clint lived together fairly well, even if you took the fake marriage out of the equation. Phil’d known it would hurt to lose those quiet mornings when they finally made it back to SHIELD. 

Phil watched each drip as it plopped into the coffee pot, trying to make himself picture the future he hadn’t been able to conceive of the night before. It didn’t work— but he did flash to a memory of Clint, watching him so closely as he made coffee in the first few days they’d lived together. He never had found out what he’d done to make Clint so wary, but eventually Clint had relaxed, settled in— and so had Phil. Would it really be so bad, to have someone share his coffee every morning?

He tapped at the pot, centering it on the burner so that each drop created ripples in the exact middle of the liquid as it came down. 

Thought about his empty SHIELD mornings.

Thought about his coffee machine at home, which was decidedly not a Mr. Coffee. And his burr grinder.

Thought about grinding beans, starting coffee, having Clint come out of his bedroom—

And suddenly found himself backing away from the coffee pot, muttering  _ no no no no no no,  _ his heart trying to thump its way out of his chest.

What the hell?

“No,” he said again, more firmly, and brought himself back to the pot. “No, stop it Phil, you’re not doing this today. No more panic attacks, they just lead to quinoa. C’mon, do it for Clint. Do it for Clint.”

He tried to bring the image up again, but it skittered away from his brain. Tried again, with Clint waiting for him as he came through the door after a long day at the Triskelion, a smile on his face and a take-out menu in his hand. There, that was better. Phil was at least able to keep the image from wobbling long enough to examine it, how it made his breath stop, his heart beat fast, faster, faster. In his mind, Clint grinned at him, kissed his cheek— all things he did now, things Phil had come to accept if not look forward to— and turned to his record player to put on an album and turn and dance and beckon Phil into his arms— 

Phil nearly bent double with the force of the nausea that hit him. 

He ended up leaning on the sink, pressing cold water to the back of his neck with a shaking hand.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. No more of that.” 

He tried again, picturing Clint parting from him when they went back to SHIELD, like they planned, pictured himself walking into an empty apartment. His heart fell, stomach fell— but only in the old familiar way. The  _ missing Clint _ way, no panic involved. Phil frowned, drying his hands on the towel.

It occurred to him that he’d never invested a lot of emotional energy in picturing someone to come home to before— he’d always assumed it wasn’t for him. Not the right time, not the right people— and Phil himself, not the right partner for anyone. Maybe that was the problem, not Clint at all. Just to see what would happen, he pictured Jasper in Clint’s place, waving the take-out menus, pulling him forward to dance.

_ “Ugh _ ,” Phil groaned, as the nausea hit again.

Unfortunately, it seemed equally likely that imagining Jasper hitting on him had caused the nausea as imagining himself in a relationship with someone. He needed someone he might actually plausibly be attracted to. 

He tried imagining Melinda. She just stood staring at him in the middle of the floor. 

“I’m not going to dance,” she told him.

“Well you’re no help at all,” he told her. Behind him, the coffee pot gave the death-rattle that signaled it was done brewing, and left the topic behind long enough to concentrate on getting himself a cup. 

“I am over forty,” he told the coffee as he poured it, “I should be able to handle thinking about myself in an adult relationship with someone I lo… I care about.”

He set about trying to do just that, while sipping his coffee in the pre-dawn light. How he ended up flipping on the oven he wasn’t sure, but Clint found him a half-hour later, blearily forking bacon from a sheet pan and flopping it onto a plate. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Clint said.

He was standing at the foot of the stairs, his hair all rumpled and pale in the early morning light and one strong, capable hand clutching the front of his t-shirt, twisting it. The action— and the lost look on his face— made him look so very, very young. He wasn’t much less pale than he’d been in Phil’s dreams. (At least, the part of Phil’s dreams where he wasn’t being chutney.)

Phil looked down at the bacon, and grimaced.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else do to,” he said, shrugging. He still had a bacon-laden fork in one hand, and hot grease splattered his thigh at the movement. 

“I thought you’d be gone on your run,” Clint said, rather than address the implications of the bacon further. 

Still, Phil was blindingly aware of how inappropriate the bacon was and searched for a discreet place to ditch the fork, finally settling for shoving it into the top drawer of the cabinet next to him.

“I was planning on going, I just…. I thought if you wanted to talk I should, you know—” he gestured at himself and his place in the kitchen— “not run off on you?”

“Gah.” Clint ran both hands through his hair then scrubbing them down his face. “I kinda wish you had.” 

He padded over to the kitchenette nonetheless, stopping short on the other side of the breakfast bar to stare bleakly at Phil. It was enough to make Phil regret every single breath, every step he’d taken from the moment he’d agreed to this stupid mission. Anything to make it so that he never had to see that look on Clint’s face, was never the one responsible for putting it there.

“I can go now?”

“No!” Clint yelped, then caught himself up short. After a moment, his shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

“No,” he said, sounding exhausted, like he’d slept as little as Phil had. “If we’re going to talk, let’s talk. I just. I’m not sure what you want from me here, Phil.” 

“Nothing,” Phil whispered, miserably. 

Well— nothing Clint could give him, anyway, that Clint hadn’t already given him at SHIELD— friendship and camaraderie. He’d had the time to realize that much, while the bacon cooked and he downed half the pot of coffee. And it didn’t change now, even though he could see hopeless affection in the way Clint looked at him, hiding just behind the wariness. He just wanted them to go back to the way they’d been, before he’d ruined it by falling for Clint. 

He wanted to stop feeling bad about how much the idea of coming home to Clint for the rest of his— for, for  _ real—  _ made his hands shake. How much the idea of being able to put that look, that hurt look, on Clint’s face again and again scared him.

“Clint, I‘m sorry. I don’t want you to feel you have to… to give me anything. It’s not your fault, and I  _ never _ wanted to burden you with… with  _ this _ .” He gestured to himself, his face, in frustration as he struggled to explain. “With me. Hell, I tried  _ so hard _ to keep this from happening.”

“Yeah, felt real hard to me, last night,” Clint said bitterly. “Thanks a lot, Phil.”

“Okay to be fair, you started it.” Phil replied, a little nettled.

He might have been an idiot, but he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten them into this mess.

“And you said yes! And you— and we—” Clint stopped short, his hands flicking impotently back and forth between himself and Phil as he apparently tried to mime the entirety of their disastrous exchange before he gave up and threw them up in frustration.

“You  _ weren’t supposed to know _ . I thought it was just me, and I could just… that you were safe, and I was the only one who was going to get hurt. I’m sorry, Clint, I know I was selfish. I was weak— I mean, it’s  _ you _ , how could I say no— but I never wanted to hurt you.”

He knew he was just repeating his pleas from last night, but he didn’t know what else to do, what else to say in the face of Clint’s obvious distress and the matching terror that was rising in his own throat. What if he’d managed to break more than just his own heart— and possibly Clint’s? What if this panic every time he thought of Clint kissing his cheek or making dinner for him or looking at him like he hung the moon didn’t go away and he couldn’t manage to play Phil Moore anymore?

“I never wanted to compromise the mission,” he whispered. 

“Fuck the mission,” Clint growled. “Just. For one minute. Fuck the mission, Phil. We’ll… we’ll figure that part out later. What I need to know is what you want to happen now. Am I supposed to just… just do bacon with you now? Is that supposed to be us, suddenly?”

_ Do bacon _ . As in, be domestic. Together. In a relationship. Like Clint Ford and Phil Moore. Like coming home to dancing in the living room and kohlrabi for dinner and raspberry dessert. Was Clint wanting that? Phil couldn’t tell from the tone of his voice, which had gone all clipped at the end of his question, like he was trying to get the words out before his emotions could catch up to them. Had Clint been imagining himself wandering barefoot through the halls of Phil’s— of their— apartment in DC and thinking it was a future Phil could actually give him?

The bile rose in his throat, and Phil looked down at the bacon plate, stricken. The bacon was beginning to hop on the plate, his hands were shaking so hard. It was enraging, to be a spy and so lacking control of his own emotional responses. If this was what a relationship with Clint meant, what even the  _ thought  _ of it meant, if he was this compromised— 

_ “God _ no, I don’t want to do bacon,” Phil said, shoving the plate from him so hard it skittered off the end of the counter and crashed on the floor, scattering bacon all over the carpet. “No, I never— I. Absolutely not. Clint, don’t ask that. You can’t ask me that. I never—”

He bit his lip to stop the babbling, and the rising tide of nausea. 

“Yeah I know you never,” Clint snapped. “That’s why I thought this was fucking safe. But then you went all, all— ” he flapped a hand at Phil’s face, which must have been doing something horribly revealing to warrant the gesture— “at me, and you never do that, so now I don’t know what to fucking think.”

He’d started off almost belligerent, but by the time he’d finished speaking he sounded almost lost. 

And immediately, Phil felt like a jerk. How could he have forgotten their conversation in the tree? Clint had said that every time he’d fallen in love, he’d ended up trailing after his lovers and straight into relationships. He was staring at Phil now half in dread, half in… what seemed like resignation. 

It gave Phil the strength to step back, try to breathe, and stop the stupid shaking in his hands. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk about this, with someone he’d been able to talk about far worse things with— about his father, for one. He needed to just calm himself down, lay it out logically, so he could stop hurting Clint. He was risking making Clint think it was about himself, that Phil thought Clint wasn’t good enough, and that he could not have.

“Clint,” Phil said, around the constriction in his chest, “It’s not you. I don’t want a relationship. I can’t. Not even with you, and, trust me if I could, you would be the one…. But it wouldn’t be fair— you’ve never talked to Melinda, you don’t know. I hurt people, that’s all I do. Like… like this, like I’m doing right now, to you, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you. But I hurt them, and I’m selfish, and I… I make them eat kale, and… and….” 

… and he stuttered to a halt, because it wasn’t working. Clint was just growing red, then pale, then red again, and shaking his head faster and faster like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“For the last time, Phil, I like your fucking kale, what the fuck?” Clint was yelling now, apparently shocked out of his earlier resignation. Phil couldn’t reconcile it, especially since it sounded like… it sounded like Clint was trying to defend him? From himself?

“I like your kale,” Clint was saying, “and your shoes in the entryway and… and you don’t hurt people, I mean a little maybe— or a lot right now— but you never want to, and you always feel bad, and you try so fucking hard, like with the quinoa, and… and the cupcake… and your stupid questions about love and bacon…. Didn’t you ever stop and think that maybe, just fucking maybe if you were going to pull shit like that someone would do the logical thing and fall the fuck in love with you?”

And there it was.

Right there, in all it’s awful glory— not that Phil had doubted it, not when the look on Clint’s face last night had been all too clear. Just, somehow, it was worse when he said it out loud. 

No, no not worse, not— even though Phil could feel the nausea coming back and his breath starting to come all shallow, a roaring start in his ears, that stupid word melted him at the edges. He could feel it take hold in his heart. 

_ I am loved _ , he thought. It didn’t feel like it could possibly be English; those words didn’t go together in his language. He had not thought that, had not felt the warmth of those words in his limbs, in over two decades. 

And abruptly, the nausea swamped him, icy in his gut. It was too sudden to fight, overwhelming him in an instant. Whatever was causing it, logic was no use at all. 

“Well you did say you do that a lot, so maybe I should have expected it.” Phil heard himself say, as if from a distance. His voice was startlingly calm, even if very rough. “But it doesn’t change a thing.”

Clint flinched— just enough to make Phil realize how badly that had come out. There he was, hurting Clint again— more proof that he was the last person Clint should want to be with. He fought to recover, to find the words to explain himself better.

“I may have gone and… and— ”  _ fallen in love _ . But he was always more of a coward than Clint; he couldn’t get the words out, so he just flapped his hands—  “with you. Which, what I was trying to say was that people fall for you often enough that maybe it should have occurred to you I would, too. But. Regardless. I admit I… developed feelings, but I can’t, I won’t…. It’s been twenty years now, and I never wanted more, with anyone, not just you, and now I don’t think I even could.”

Phil realized he was running his hands through his hair and dropped them abruptly, holding them out as if he could make Clint  _ see _ , if he’d just look into them. It was imperative he explain, without getting into the way the whole idea of a relationship with Clint apparently gave him a panic attack— an admission that was practically guaranteed to hurt. 

“Jesus, Clint,” he said, “I can’t take care of my  _ cat _ , much less you.”

He froze, his hands pointed down at the carpet towards an imaginary Rosie, and waited, hoping Clint could read his sincerity in his face because he’d used up the very last of his words. The shaking had stopped and the tears were very close to the surface now— he didn’t think he had much more argument left in him before he just started crying. Which was the last thing anybody needed.

“Oh my god, Phil,” Clint groaned, flinging up his hands. “Would you listen to me for once?  When have I ever said I  _ wanted _ a relationship with you? It’s the last thing I want! I know how my relationships end, all of them. I know I’m crap at them—  I don’t want to subject you to that. But come  _ on _ , I don’t need to be taken care of either, I can pull my own weight. You don’t have to fucking insult me!”

“Clint, I’m not,” Phil said, honestly bewildered by that. “I’m really not.”

“Really? You didn’t just compare me to a goddamned cat?”

“I— okay, maybe a little, but I didn’t mean it, I just meant… I meant…” Phil paused, and ended up standing with his mouth open and nothing to fill it, no way to explain that he knew Clint wasn’t a pet, he didn’t think Clint couldn’t take care of himself, he just— he needed Clint to not be hurt. Ever. And the nausea still churning his gut was telling him that Clint could be the most competent, caring, cautious person in the history of the world and he would still get hurt. And it would be all Phil’s fault— somehow.  

Finally, he just shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Look,” Clint said, deflating suddenly. “I’ve got a history and I know it. You don’t have to fucking sugar-coat it— yeah, people fall in love with me. And then I ruin it, every time, and they fucking leave. I was trying to  _ avoid _ that this time, Phil. Guess I just fucked it up anyway, huh?”

What was Phil supposed to do with that, honestly? Lie? 

He wanted to. Every spy instinct in him was screaming that he had to cover up, deflect, draw Clint away from the vulnerable spot. Even if he didn’t know what the vulnerable spot  _ was _ , why the very thought of a relationship with Clint— a relationship neither of them even seemed to want— had him practically wheezing, his head spinning, his gut aching. Hell, even when he opened his mouth, he was still trying to find the right falsehood… but apparently he couldn’t even do that anymore, not to Clint.

He loved Clint, and if the only thing he could give him was the truth, he would just have to dig down until he found it.

“I wouldn’t leave,” he said, helpless to stop himself. “I don’t know how anyone who actually loved you ever could… and I can’t imagine I could have you and then give you up, Clint.”

He’d somehow found words after all, it seemed. They were disastrous words, he could tell that even as they tumbled out of his mouth, but they felt right, like this time the argument might stick. He had to get them out, all of them, now, faster, while he still had the trace of them. 

“Don’t you get it? That’s the problem. I couldn’t let you go. If, if we had— if I let you be in my life… be in my life that way? I would never….” Phil realized only dimly that he was starting to rock back and forth. His brain was still too fogged from the lack of sleep, the dreams, his coffee-less state, to let him think ahead. “Don’t you see? You’re a spy, I’m a spy— for lack of a better word. You know, you  _ know _ what happens to people like us, usually sooner than later. And… and I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t live with it.”

Something felt like it was finally breaking through the confusion, working its way to the surface, and it bubbled up so fast he couldn’t have shut his teeth against it even if he’d realized what was coming.

“Even if I don’t drive you away, even if you can like the kale and… and shoes. I don’t get to keep you. And what happens then?”

Clint had gone still, staring at him with a mouth dropped open and wide, wide eyes. Phil stared back at him, trying desperately to get him to finally understand, and reaching out as if in supplication.

“For god’s sake, Clint,” he sighed, daylilies beginning to spin at the edges of his vision, “what will happen to me when you die?”

####

“Uh.” 

Clint stopped there, honestly as speechless as he’d ever been in his life without the aid of laryngitis or a gag. If there was a last thing he’d expected to come from Phil’s mouth, once he’d started looking distressed and babbling, that had to be it. Yes, he'd figured he'd get some version of "it's not you, it's me," because Phil wasn't cruel but instead he'd gotten "it's not you it's your mortality."

Somewhere behind the bewilderment and heartburn, he was aware he must look completely gobsmacked.

“Are… you planning on me dying?” he asked Phil, for lack of any more coherent response.

He hadn’t even been expecting to have this conversation, since he’d woken up to find Phil gone already. He’d assumed they’d just… try and awkwardly pretend the night before had never happened, and make sure never to so much as brush pinkies again when not in public. It wasn’t his first choice, but he could respect the decision to just walk away from the talk like the cowards they both clearly were.

But even if he had imagined this conversation, this would have been way outside its bounds. Phil clearly knew it’d come out of left field, too— hell, he looked just as startled as Clint felt.

“No— of course I’m not planning on it,” he said, looking down— or maybe inward— more than at Clint. “Just. I just. It happens, doesn’t it? Especially in our line of work, but even if— people leave you— whether they want to or not.” 

That last part was a whisper, and his shoulders slumped. Clint fought the urge to pull him into a hug— it would probably have broken them both to smithereens.

“People leave you,” Phil repeated. “And you can’t… I can’t stop it. I can’t take care of them. And if we were… if we were together… what if I couldn’t do it? What if I couldn’t go on, afterward? I can’t— I can’t risk that.” 

He drew himself back up, meeting Clint’s eyes for the first time in several minutes. Clint kind of wished he hadn’t; the look Phil gave him was empty, and hard. He felt his hackles rise in reaction to it. 

“Don’t ask me to,” Phil finished, looking somehow as hollowed out as if he’d come off a long op in enemy territory, and Clint was asking why he hadn’t brought any reinforcements with him. (For the record—  _ Clint _ hadn’t been the one stupid enough to ask, on the op in question.)

Hug nothing, Clint wanted to punch him. Or shake him. Or anything to get Phil to stop repeating how weak he was— which was so wrong it had to be some kind of blasphemy. There’d never been anything Clint hadn’t seen Phil manage to do if he wanted to badly enough, there wasn’t anyone stronger than him, how  _ dare _ he talk like that about himself? 

“For the last time,” Clint growled, shoving all his frustration into his voice so it didn’t come out in his fists, “I’m not fucking asking you to do anything.”

His voice was shaking— goddamnit, why was his voice shaking? Clint took a deep breath, clenched his fists together, and tried to figure out what to say next, how to convince Phil to just shut up and listen to him and stop assuming Clint was trying to… to… to guilt him into a relationship. And then to go and die on him. As if Clint could somehow force Phil to care that much— as if anyone would ever care for Clint that much. No one else had ever had that kind of problem with giving Clint up.

Oh, shit, that wasn’t a mental path he needed to go down. Focus on the devastating emotional issue at hand, Barton. Clint tried again:

“Hell, I’m relieved you don’t want me, you asshole. Didn’t you hear me? I’m  _ relieved _ . I don’t want you!”

Wait. No, that had come out really, really wrong. Of course he wanted Phil, he wanted Phil so bad he’d gotten them both into this stupid, sordid mess. Clint ran his hands over his face.

“Arg— I mean, I don’t mean that. I mean I don’t want a  _ relationship _ with you, especially not if you’re gonna be that way about it. Because the last thing I need, the absolute  _ last _ thing, is you making yourself a martyr for me.”

There. Better. Except that Phil was still staring at him with that stupid hurt look on his stupid handsome face, like he still thought Clint was going to up and break his heart, when it was always always the other way around. Hadn’t more than one ex-lover— and his ex-wife— told Clint he let himself get hurt— emotionally— too damn easily and too damned often? Which, fair enough, but not a one of them, not a single one, had done what Phil’d just done.

His heart, sure, Clint was pretty careless about that, but he’d never just throw around his life like it was worth nothing. Not  _ now _ anyway, not since he’d come to SHIELD and people relied on him. Sure, maybe it seemed like it from the outside, but Clint didn’t actually have a death wish. Which Phil— which  _ Agent Coulson _ — should’ve damn well known. They’d worked together long enough and if Phil couldn’t trust his heart, he should at least be trusting Clint’s professional judgment.

“You know what?” Clint asked, his voice straining, as he pointed an accusatory finger at Phil, “I’m not convinced  _ I’d _ be the one dying. Yeah sure, I’m a spy, I eat danger for breakfast, all that jazz. But  _ so are you _ . And you know what? I’m the amazing Hawkeye, Phil— or I was. I’ve been soloing it since you were in junior agent  _ diapers _ . I know how to take care of myself. You, you’re the one that got attacked by an  _ undergrad _ while jogging. Of the two of us, seems to me  _ you’re _ more likely to die on  _ me  _ than the other way around. So what about  _ that _ , huh?”

Clint reached over the counter and poked Phil in the chest. Phil stumbled back, staring at Clint’s hand and blinking, gone all open-mouthed.

Immediately, Clint felt terrible. What the hell was he doing?  _ Way to make everything even more awkward, Barton. _

He was just escalating the situation, and he definitely wasn’t convincing Phil of anything: not that Clint wasn’t going to die on him, not that Clint was rational about this whole thing, and  _ certainly _ not that Clint could be trusted with his heart. He had to get himself under control. Clint drew in a breath, trying to calm himself down enough to apologize before Phil got over looking bug-eyed and managed to say something.

He never got to do it— at that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out half out of reflex, but froze when he saw the text on the screen.

_ Clint help _ , Cassie had written.  _ I need help Im in the lab Milos here Clint please get here now _ .

“Shit.” 

Cassie could be vague in her texts, and occasionally overdramatic, but that looked legitimately urgent, not like Milo was just droning on about his potsherds or his bearded lizard. He remembered Milo’s pale face, popping up from behind the bushes, darting away when Cassie came close. He’d seemed shifty, and agitated— and Clint barely knew him at all. He had no idea what Milo was capable of.

“What’s wrong?” Phil asked, his voice suddenly all business.

“Cassie. At the lab. Something’s wrong. I can’t tell if it’s just lab work or— or worse. She— I gotta go. We. I…. I’ll call.”

Clink knew he should probably stay long enough to explain more, form a better plan. Even as he was throwing on his backpack and flinging himself out the door he knew he was being stupid.

But he  _ was _ the Amazing Hawkeye— thanks, 19-year-old-self who’d thought that a circus name was going to look real professional on a mercenary— and he could take care of himself no matter what any stupid Phil Coulsons thought. He’d find Cassie, find Milo— maybe get a break in the damn case— and afterwards he’d sort out Phil and make him see… 

And make him see… 

Clint was all the way out the door, already sprinting across the co-op paths, when he realized how that thought ended. He’d sort out Phil and make him see they were meant to be together.

He stopped dead in the middle of the path, appalled at himself.

That was… that had to be the single most self-destructive relationship-related thought he’d ever had in his life. Yeah, sure, Clint the fuck-up and Phil— who apparently thought in pure  _ Wuthering Heights _ terms about love or something like that— were meant to be together. As in, he wanted— of his own accord, without anybody dragging him into it, and in direct opposition to what he’d just shouted at Phil— to be in a relationship. A bacon-type relationship. With Phil Coulson.

“Oh my god, you dumbass,” he told himself, “you’re just determined to punch yourself in the dick, aren’t you?”

His phone buzzed again.

_ Clint are you comng  _ Cassie asked.

_ Omw. Hold fast  _ he texted her back, and started off again.

He could think about Phil and bacon and relationships later. Anyway, that had probably just been an intrusive thought, like the sudden desire to step off the curb and walk into heavy traffic. 

It was a really tempting intrusive thought, though. The more he imagined it, sharing bacon with Phil, the better it sounded. 

As proof that he was determined to punch himself in the dick, Clint was too busy imagining feeding Phil bacon as they lounged in bed, and he didn’t even think to second-guess the text until he was inside the archeology lab. The lights were off, and he stumbled over the threshold, looking for Cassie in the inky gloom. 

That was when all his suppressed spy hackles raised at once, and he spun around—

“Hey,” Cassie said, from behind him. She was smiling up at him, a little weak about the edges, her eyes big in her face. “You came.”

“It sounded urgent,” Clint told her. “You saw Milo?”

“I did,” Cassie said, nodding her head. “Absolutely I did. And— Clint?”

“Yeah?” Clint asked, leaning closer. Were there tears in the corners of her eyes?   
“I’m sorry. I’m. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sorry for— for what?”

“Miss Cassidy. Mr. Ford.” 

Clint spun again— Dr. Santander was standing in the doors on the far end of the lab, the ones that led to his offices and the corridor. 

“You should go, Miss Cassidy,” he said. “Tess is looking for you in Doctor Burgoyne’s office. Close the door on your way out.” 

With a last look at Clint, and a grimace, Cassie went. The doors echoed as she shut them.

“Mr. Ford,” Dr. Santander said, turning to him with a wide, almost jolly smile, “how delightful to see you this early in the morning. Benton tells me you were interested in our stelae from Temple B, when you were here on Friday.”

“Uh,” Clint said, struggling to sound nonchalant, “it was hard to miss.”

“I suppose it was. Well, since you’re here so early, why don’t you come with me. There’s something in the storage room that I think you’ll find… most enlightening.”

With very little other choice, Clint went, wondering just what the hell he was getting himself into now.

####

Clint had gone, trampling the bacon and scattering it across the carpet in his wake— and leaving Phil feeling similarly flattened. 

His last words, claiming Phil was just as likely to die as he was, had hit hard enough they’d finally shocked Phil out of his panic. Not because Phil was unaccustomed to thinking about his own mortality— Phil was about as accustomed to that as any agent who reached Level 6, which was to say he’d long ago come to terms with the fact that he was unlikely to die in his own bed. But because Clint could apparently contemplate loving Phil and having Phil die on him— and going on afterward.

Phil leaned down to begin picking up the bacon as he thought about that. 

He was still surprised at his own outburst.  _ What if you die _ hadn’t been part of any objections Phil had ever raised to himself about falling in love with Clint— and he’d raised just about all of them, at one point or another. It had never even featured as a downside of being in love with a Clint who didn’t love him back. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? 

Phil began to get the uncomfortable feeling he hadn’t exactly been honest with himself for a while now, and not just about his feelings for Clint. Because that outburst was far too big to have been building up for as short a time as he’d been in love with Clint. It felt like that bit of melodrama could have come straight from his dream the night before. 

He closed his eyes, dirty bacon drooping between his fingers, and tried to piece the dream back together. Clint, lifeless, surrounded by lilies, Alexander Pierce— skip that bit— the funeral feast, Phil holding Pierce’s hand like he was a child again, in the church basement in Manitowoc, surrounded by uneaten raspberry dessert and being told he was about to disappear.

There are moments in one’s life, especially if one has had a very busy one with a lot of running and fighting and other important things, when everything suddenly flips about a hundred and eighty degrees, and one comes to the startling realization that one has been an idiot for a very, very long time. Phil’d had one or two of those moments before, and they seemed to have been piling on top of each other, ever since he’d accepted the mission with Clint. 

Apparently, this was going to be another one. 

Phil sat back against the counter, his feet splaying out amidst the increasingly ground-in bacon, and thumped his head backwards. 

_ How do I go on _ ? He’d asked Clint.

He’d thought it was a fair enough question. People _ didn’t  _ go on once someone they loved, someone they’d built their entire life around, died. He knew that intimately from watching his mother. Knew it so deep down in his bones that he didn’t think he’d ever actually put it into words before. The only way to prevent losing yourself was to not fall in love— or if you’re stupid enough to fall in love, for god’s sake don’t have a  _ relationship.  _ If your life has no room for that, if your life is already overly full, you might make it. Just don’t leave space big enough in your heart to create a wound you can’t survive when someone rips it out. 

It made his almost-relationship with Melinda look very different, in retrospect.

Hell, it made his relationship with his former  _ cat _ look very different, in retrospect.

People who coupled up at SHIELD had always bemused him— Melinda and Andrew included. He had never been sure whether he admired their courage, or was a little disturbed by their blind optimism. The life of a SHIELD agent, he’d rationalized, was hard and occasionally ethically icky. Who’d want to pair up in the face of that? 

Now, faced with long-buried memories of raspberry dessert, of saving big money and dancing to Sam and Dave, of Phil’s mother turning duller and duller as the days went on, her spine and smile stiffening to steel for Phil, even while pain took up permanent residence behind her eyes, Phil wondered if any of them had the slightest idea what they were letting themselves in for.

Or if they even did, really, love each other after all. Maybe ignorance was bliss?

But that didn’t explain Clint, who’d lost mother and father both. Was it just that he hadn’t had to see one of them survive the other? Except, no— no child survives a loss like that intact, either. And yet, Clint fell in love all the time. In fact, Clint had gone on to entwine his life with someone more than once even, apparently, while believing he was going to get left behind. 

Phil had always considered Clint Barton the most courageous man he’d ever me  but never, until today, the most foolhardy. But either he was that— dangerously optimistic in the face of actual experience— or else maybe… just maybe… Phil’s experiences might not actually be as universal as he’d thought they were. 

“Huh,” Phil said out loud, sitting up. 

The morning was wearing on a little, sunlight creeping across the splayed bacon and making it shine in pale gold and amber against the darker gold of the shag carpet. Dust motes hung in the air above it, dancing. The light seemed familiar, somehow, in a way it never quite was in DC, or Abidjan, or anywhere else he traveled. 

He reached out and began to clean again, mechanically.

His joints were stiff by the time he stood up and deposited the bacon in the trash, but the sense that the world had tipped a few degrees lingered. There’d always been just him and his parents— no grandparents, no aunts and uncles, and other adults had come and gone in a way that had left young Phil little time to learn about their inner lives or relationships. While his father had been alive, it had been so cozy. Once he’d died, well— there’d been nothing worth sticking around for, for him or his mother.

He dragged that thought back to the broom closet with him, to get out the carpet sweeper.

Clint had had a brother, he’d said. He’d been in and out of houses with all sorts of families, and he’d landed in a circus— which seemed like the kind of place that encouraged all sorts of inappropriate relationships. It stood to reason that Clint’s sample size had been a hell of a lot bigger than Phil’s.

And small samples were inherently prone to bias.

As the bacon crumbs disappeared into the firm bristles of the sweeper, Phil considered this.

“It’s possible I’m a little more messed up than I thought,” he told the room at large.

He consulted his gut, but the nausea that had dogged him all morning had quieted down and his insides were silent. He took that as confirmation— and maybe the first step in exorcising some past ghost. 

The silence echoing from the living room, from the empty futon and the quiet record player, the sunlight streaming through the slats of the stairs, seemed to agree with him. 

“All right,” he said, “next steps?” He was, vaguely, asking the bookcase— and he wasn’t sure whether that made him look more or less stupid than if he were talking to himself. Either way the bookcase didn’t answer. Which wasn’t actually a surprise; bookcases weren’t exactly known for their empathetic properties.

Now, if he had Melinda and Andrew around, he— 

Oh. Right.

Andrew.

The psychologist.

Who happened to be his friend.

“Yeah I suppose that would be a first step,” he sighed. 

Once he actually had a plan, Phil had never been one to  _ wait _ to start implementing it— which probably explained why he’d taken to Clint so quickly, given that Clint never even waited for a plan. So he was halfway to his phone before he stopped to ponder whether phoning Andrew  _ now _ was worth the risk of pinging the radar either of SHIELD or of some hidden enemy at the University. 

It would probably be better to wait until the mission was done. 

Except of course, now that Phil had identified his brain weasels, he wanted them out and gone, before they attacked Clint again. And he wanted to see if his disastrous attempt to imagine himself in a relationship with Clint would go better without them nipping at his gut. Not that it made a difference, except on a personal level— Clint had made it quite clear that he didn’t want a relationship with Phil. All Phil’s other objections still applied anyway. 

Or… or did they?

He was still pondering when someone knocked on the door, and even then the question took up half of his mind up until the moment he opened it and found Clint’s counselor on his stoop.

“Hello,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. “Um.” Oh, Christ, what was her name? Georgie? Gemma? No. Last name? Spivvens? No. Arg. “Come in,” he said, flanking the whole question.

She came. He gave her a quick once-over, both for weapons and state of mind. She looked worried, her eyes and face tight behind those coke-bottle glasses, her hair if anything more disarranged than normal. No weapons, but she was carrying a small sheaf of paper twisted between her hands. 

“What can I do for you?” he asked, trying to dredge up some of his Agently geniality, despite the fact he was still dressed in running shorts and a tank top. 

“I’m not sure, Agent Coulson, but I think we need to talk” she said, holding up the paper in her hands.

It was the copy of the rubbing that he’d given Phyl. 

And it had notes, in a spidery scrawl, in all the margins.

Also, and not least pertinently, his cover was apparently blown.

“Yeah,” he said, closing the door behind her. “I think we do.”

####

As Clint followed Santander out into the dim corridor, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. _ Late to the party again, goddamnit _ , he thought to himself. 

The door to the storage room was standing open. Clint could see down the first long row of shelves to the shadows lurking in the far corner. As Santander gestured, Milo appeared in the doorway. He took one look at Clint and went pale.

“Ah, Milo,” Santander said jovially. “There you are. Hard man to find lately. Can you—”

Milo blinked at him, shrieked, and backed quickly into the storage room and out of sight.

“Well that was uncalled-for,” Santander said, staring after him. “I wonder what he’s up to. Well, Mr. Ford, care to—”

“Merlin, do you happen to have— oh. Ford.” Dr Jones leaned against the wall of her office, just down the hall, looking between the two of them and looking a little confused. 

Clint felt his heartbeat start to slow, though he wasn’t sure it was the right response. If there was danger here— and his subconscious certainly thought so— she was no less a suspect than the others. 

“Hey, Dr. Jones,” he greeted her, because it never hurt to be polite, even to people who might be lurking with intent.

She glanced at Santander again, then straightened in her doorway.

“I was hoping you’d be by— do you have a moment?” she asked. The question was innocuous enough, but there was weight behind it. “I… need to talk to you about your ancient astronauts essay. Some surprising material in it.”

Clint was sure there was— he hadn’t written any such essay, so any material would be surprising. Was she trying to warn him, or distract him? 

While Clint was standing frozen, trying to decide how to respond, Santander scooped him up by the arm. Milo had disappeared back into the storage room.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, Dr. Jones. Mr. Ford is needed within.” He gestured elaborately towards the storage rooms. “Tess can send him to you when they’re finished with him. Can’t you, my dear?”

That last was addressed towards the doorway.

“Absolutely,” Tess said, stepping from the gloom of the storage room into the light of the hall. She held an artifact under one of her arms— the stone head with the tentacles. It had, somehow, lost its helmet. Seeing Clint staring, she held it up. “Wanna meet my new friend? I call him Harvey.”

“Hi, Harvey,” Clint said to the stone face.

Tess held it up and shoved it at him.

“Blehhh,” she said— presumably, he thought, imitating the stone face.

“Blech,” he said, right back. 

“Seriously, though, come on through,” Tess told him, grinning. “We’ve already got Cassie back there waiting for you. We’re gonna blow your mind.”

“Ah, sure,” Clint agreed, then looked back at Jones. “Um— after?”

Jones was frowning, like she had an objection and wasn’t sure whether to make it.

“Sure,” she said at last. “Come find me.”

Clint gave them all one last look.

He wanted to call Phil, tell him something was off, that he needed back up. At the very least, he ought to let Phil know where he was disappearing to. Tell him he loved him, that he was sorry he’d hurt him. That he hoped he’d be back. 

Of course, even if he could have, Phil would never get to him in time. But he could still call to Jones, who was turning into her office and closing the door, and give her a message for Phil. Just in case. It would start out  _ I’m sorry, Mr. Moore _ —

Oh god, Phil’s Wuthering Heights disease must be contagious. Here Clint was, behaving like the hero of a melodrama. If he wasn’t careful, someone was going to get tied to a railroad track next. His gut was probably right, something was off, but how much danger could he possibly be in? There were witnesses all over. Plus, he’d been in the storage room; it wasn’t that it held  _ no _ secrets, but whatever it held had been benign so far. He’d been over every last nook and cranny; unless there was a secret passageway into those creepy tunnels, he wasn’t going to disappear.

“Ready?” Tess asked, grinning at Clint, a lock of magenta hair falling over her eyes and giving her a kind of Disney fairy joviality. He felt his shoulders unknot. Not like anything that hinky could happen with Tess around.

“Ready,” he confirmed, then bent down to get eye-to-eye with Harvey. “Lead the way.”

Laughing, Tess turned and led him into the storage room.

Santander loomed behind Clint, so close at his back that his generous stomach brushed Clint’s arm as they went through the door. 

Everything looked subtly different in the low light, but before Clint’s eyes could adjust— or he could start to worry about ambushes— Santander flipped the light switch behind him.

Fluorescent lighting crackled to life, blinding Clint momentarily.

“Ow,” Tess said from ahead of him. “That’s bright.”

Santander rumbled apologies.

“Ah, there you all are,” said Dr. Burgoyne, from somewhere ahead of him. “I see you brought us Clinton.”

Clint blinked the pinwheels from his eyes and straightened.

“Yeah, sorry— you wanted me?”

He could see Burgoyne now, standing at the end of the first row— where the bas relief of the goat had used to hang out. The light made everything in the storage room seem hyper-real, and somehow smaller. She was wearing a long coat in a kind of garnet shade of red and the helmet— the one Harvey had been wearing when he was on the shelf— was under her arm. It looked like a costume prop, the metal too bright to belong to something ancient. Even Harvey’s mouth-snakes seemed less grotesque, like maybe he was just a monument to a time before mouthwash. Only the wall behind Dr. Burgoyne still held significant shadows, and the light had darkened them more than normal.

“I did,” Burgoyne said. “I have a job for you.”

As she spoke, something moved behind her. Burgoyne stepped out of the way, and Clint had a moment when the world tipped sideways for him and reality reordered itself. 

It wasn’t a shadow behind her, it was an open door, leading to an unlit space. How had he never seen a door in that part of the storage room before? But he didn’t have time to wonder, because Milo was slipping out from behind Burgoyne. 

He looked even worse than he had last night, if that was possible, exhausted and twitchy, and he looked up at Burgoyne with resignation.

“It’s time,” she told him. “Your last task.”

He responded only with a nod, but straightened up.

When he walked past Clint, he didn’t even bother to wink— or say “ugh,” for that matter.

Clint found he’d moved further into the room to let Milo have room to move. Santander did the opposite, stepping back outside the storage room door to open it further for Milo. When Milo had passed, he closed the door.

It shut with a reverberant thud, leaving Santander outside.

“I see you’re curious about the secret room,” Dr. Burgoyne said, and Clint nodded. “Why don’t you come see?”

“It’s really cool,” Tess told Clint when he hesitated. “It must have been here before the University was. Not many students get to see it; you’re special.”

“Yeah, uh,” Clint looked at the door once more. He’d been looking for secrets, hadn’t he?

Here one was— in the form of a door he couldn’t see the other side of, in the basement of a storage room. And his partner had no clue what he was about to do.

Still.

“Come on, scaredy-cat,” Tess teased, “is this some leftover army paranoia? It’s just a dark room— I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

“Right,” Clint said, nodding to himself, “sounds good.”

Actually it sounded terrible, but he didn’t think saying so was a choice. So he went, walking down the rows and wondering if he could leave a message for Phil in one of the listening devices— not that they’d been any goddamn use before. When he got to the door, Dr. Burgoyne stepped in front of him and went inside, ducking to the side of the lintel.

He took a breath, twisting the wedding ring on his finger round and round. No help for it— the only way out was through. He stepped after her, into the gloom. 

Just as he did, he took one look back— Tess was behind him, still looking calm and reassuring. She was holding Harvey up, as if giving him a better view, and in the weird lighting it looked like he was laughing, open-mouthed, laughing so hard that snakes were falling out of him.

Clint turned back, to catch the glint of the helmet where Burgoyne was raising it. 

And then the door closed, and the rest was darkness.

####

By mutual accord, neither Phil nor his unexpected visitor said anything until he’d gotten her situated on the futon and closed the curtains. He was careful to keep a safe distance from her, placing the coffee table between them, in hopes it would calm her down. When he turned back from closing the curtains, she had just finished stuffing the rubbing down the front of her blouse. He caught the movement as she whipped her hands down and pressed them in her lap.

“Would you like anything to drink?” he asked, to give her time to settle and decide whether or not she wanted to trust him. “I’ve got coffee made. Or pop? Water? We have a few bottles, I think.”

“Water’s good— no.” She caught herself sharply, staring down at her hands for a moment before looking up at him. “Coffee. Coffee’s… fine. Yes.” 

Taking it for the show of good faith it was, Phil made sure to keep himself angled towards her while he got her a mug and poured, so she could see everything that went in it. She waited, still wringing her hands, until he’d put both their mugs on the table, and then went to sit.

Of course, the only thing to sit on in the living room was the futon, which she was already inhabiting. Phil looked around, feeling unaccountably startled, for anything other than a dining chair to sit on. How the hell hadn’t he or Clint noticed their lack of seating before now? They’d noticed the lack of shelving, after all. 

“Hold on,” he sighed, finally, and folded himself into a cross-legged position on the floor. Hopefully she’d see it as disarming rather than foolish. “There. Now.”

A pause, as they both watched each other, Phil trying to look as trustworthy and competent as possible when sitting on the floor wearing gym shorts. The counselor— goddammit, he knew the name, it was on the tip of his tongue— reached out to take a sip of coffee.

She stopped with the rim of the mug nearly to her mouth, stared at it a moment, then sighed and set it on her lap, wrapping her hands around it.

“I’m not sure where to start, if you want me to be honest,” she said. “Or if I should at all, at least without some assurance from you.”

“We’re in the same boat, then,” Phil told her, leaning on the coffee table with his elbows. “You… named a name, when you came in. May I ask why?”

That got him a little glare.

“Oh I know who you are, Agent Coulson. I saw your picture in one of those godawful quarterly safety newsletters years ago. It was hard to forget: you and Felix Blake were demonstrating the new portable decontamination units, in your—”

“I remember that one,” Phil confirmed, cutting her short. It had been a March day, the wind had been fairly stiff, and the safety committee had decided that they were going to demonstrate everything exactly according to the SOP, multi-directional nozzles and all. “You’re SHIELD.”

Had Fury sent out another team without telling them? Or was she part of a different operation? If so, why hadn’t Jasper warned them? Unless it was above his clearance level, in which case Phil had a horrible feeling he’d compromised her mission by accident. Though that still didn’t explain why Fury wouldn’t have planned for the eventuality.

She nodded, still clutching her coffee with both hands like it was some kind of talisman. 

“But don’t ask me for a countersign. I’ve been out of pocket for… for too long, now. I’m guessing mine are all dated.”

Long term undercover then— deep cover, even. And he and Clint had trampled all over it. Dammit. Had she been here when Elena Magnos was? What the hell was so interesting to Fury at a state school of only regional reputation?

“You recognized me. When? At the gyros joint?”

“Yes. It took me longer to place your partner, but when he asked if there was an archery range on campus, well— that is Agent Barton, right? Hawkeye?”

Phil held his hands out palm up in lieu of confirming anything. 

“If we’d known you were here, we’d have tried to stay out of your way, I’m sorry. I wish you’d found a way to say something earlier.”

“Hah. No, that was the last thing I wanted to do, not until I knew for certain why you’re here.” She set the coffee down with a thunk, spilling liquid. Her eyes had suddenly sharpened behind her glasses. 

“And now you know?”

“Not for sure, but—” her hand drifted towards the paper in her cleavage, before she stopped it. “But you didn’t send the rubbing back to SHIELD for translation, and you didn’t send it to anyone else either. That’s suggestive. And wise— you can’t trust SHIELD.”

A chill went down Phil’s spine. He hated mole hunts— even the suggestion of mole hunts. They were long and fractious, and innocent people got caught in the mix. At the same time… at the same time, Elena Magnos had disappeared in Guatemala and everyone had assured Fury that it was  _ just fine _ . It suggested another reason Fury might have kept Clint and Phil in the dark about having another agent at Driftless— or another several reasons, some of which made him feel a little sick to contemplate. 

Was she a double agent? Or did Fury think either he or Clint were? The question seemed absurd— but again. Mole hunts. On the whole, he preferred oral surgery without anesthetic. It was at least easy to identify the person responsible for the pain.

“And yet you’re here,” he said, trying to feel her out. “And I’m SHIELD.”

She gave him a quick head-bob of acknowledgment.

“I meant generically. I’m sure there are some SHIELD agents I can still trust; it’s finding them that’s the issue. I’m hoping you’re one. So tell me, please, why are you here?”

Phil debated for a moment, watching her watching him. Behind the matter-of-fact tone of voice, her eyes were tense and her hands were shaking, just a little. She didn’t really look like a deep cover operative— she looked like someone drastically out of her depth and beginning to run out of energy to tread water.

Something started to itch the back of his mind, that little instinctive twitch he got when the intelligence all finally started to look like a  _ thing _ rather than a random collection of characters.

“Nick Fury sent us. There was a SHIELD scientist here on sabbatical with the archeology faculty. She disappeared in Guatemala, and he wanted us to find out why. We’re looking for—”

“Elena Magnos,” she said sitting back and sighing. “Well. You’ve found her.”

“I— what?” Phil asked, his mental record scratching. “I’m sorry, you— what?”

“I’m Elena Magnos,” she said. 

And then she took off those horrible thick glasses and set them down on the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached up to her hair and began removing pins. One, two, three, five, ten, she placed them next to her glasses. Then, carefully, she edged her fingernails under her hairline, and removed her wig. Underneath her hair was thick, darker, and close-cropped, framing the intense face he’d last seen glaring at him from a mission briefing packet.

“Huh,” Phil said. 

“Can I put the glasses back on now? I do actually need them— awful things. I used to wear contacts, but those don’t work well as a disguise.”

“No, yes, go ahead. Whatever you need.” Phil watched her put the glasses back on and focus on him again. “I. Glad to see the rumors of your death were, well—” he gestured at her. “Exaggerated.”

“Fury thought I was dead?” she asked sharply.

“He didn’t know what to think. The two most likely theories were that you’d fallen off a cliff or run away. He certainly didn’t think you’d come back here. We were here to find out what happened to you and whether anyone here was responsible. Obviously, this is a much better outcome.”

“For me at least.” Magnos frowned, and finally took a swig of coffee. “You’re not far wrong— I did fall off a cliff. And then I ran away, since I assumed if I went back to camp I’d just get helped off a cliff again.”

“Ich,” Phil said, sympathetically. “Someone picked the wrong cliff, I take it?”

“There was a switchback about ten feet down, hidden by the brush. I just managed to catch it.” Magnos screwed up her face at the memory. “Wish I could tell you who it was. Of course, if I could, I wouldn’t have come back  _ here _ . I’d have gone back to SHIELD or… or disappeared entirely, depending. Instead,” she gestured at the wig. “As you see. I needed to find out more, but I couldn’t be seen over in Forkenbrock. Every university is always short on counselors. It’s a known fact. And no self-respecting professor would be seen dead over in Admissions.”

Nor would any SHIELD agent have a reason to descend into it’s bowels. Except Clint.

“Had to be a shock, when you saw Clint had letters of reference from you.”

“Oh it was. I wasn’t sure if it meant SHIELD had come for me, or come for… for something else.” 

Her hand drifted to the hidden paper again. Phil fought to keep himself from grimacing, but did make an internal note that the Science Academy needed to start insisting its students had a general course or two in the basics of espionage and interrogation.

“And you don’t trust SHIELD.” 

Or else she’d done something SHIELD wouldn’t sanction. 

Magnos grimaced.

“Yes. At least, I don’t trust SHIELD lightly. For a while I didn’t trust  _ anyone _ in SHIELD, Director Fury included. I’m still not sure I should trust you— but I don’t have much choice. Or time, for that matter. You and Barton were trying to find out what happened to me. Anyone else?”

Phil considered. Magnos wasn’t the only one with trust issues— he’d been SHIELD long enough to know that conveniently-reappearing agents were sometimes not what they seemed. And they had several possible 084s from Temple B, a rubbing they couldn’t translate that was now in the missing scientist’s hands, and evidence she had at least one, if not more, accomplices on campus. (Not that she needed more than one if Phyl was on her side.)

Still. If she was really fishing for information, she could just call Nick Fury and declare herself found. If she’d been watching long enough, she likely knew that he and Clint were alone. And if she was compromised, well… Phil would just have to play it by ear.

“Just the two of us on site; there’s support from SHIELD, but it’s small. Nick’s doing this out of his discretionary budget. The WSC wouldn’t authorize a full investigation. But Nick— well, the way Nick put it, he felt guilty that he’d let you come to Driftless without support.”

Magnos, unexpectedly, cracked a laugh at that.

“Wouldn’t have thought the Director ever felt guilty about anything in his life. No, I’m the one who convinced him it was safe, more fool me. I thought it’d be a nice vacation. He’d had me traveling all over the last few years— barely had a chance to sit down and rest, much less catch up on any of my own research. Half of it wasn’t even my area of expertise— he had me on Project Franklin, for heaven’s sake. Just because I have a doctorate in archeology doesn’t automatically mean I know where all the dead bodies in the world are buried. Or drowned, in this case.”

“You— were Project Franklin? I was working on that before, well— this.” Phil waved his hand around the apartment. 

“I was, for all the good— anyway. I got moved onto another pet project of his. More my line, anyway— ancient languages.”

“I thought you were more molecular archeology? Clint said so, at any rate.”

“SHIELD makes us all multi-taskers. I started out with potsherds and decrypting Linear B, like all of us. The mass spectrometers came later. And that last project— well, I could have gotten another doctorate by the end of it, if anyone would ever be allowed to read the thesis. But I’d burned out. When Merlin called saying Driftless was looking for a visiting professor in molecular archeology while they did a full search, it sounded like a dream. I asked Nick for sabbatical. A chance to get out and do some pure archeology again. He probably thought I’d quit if he didn’t agree— I was pretty vehement.”

“And nothing seemed… off to you about the invitation?”

“Oh heavens no. Merlin isn’t capable of hidden motives. He  _ thinks _ he’s sly, but my god I remember back when he was running his first dig.” For a moment, Magnos’s gaze went distant. “I was just a grad student, but he’d send me out to deal with the local authorities since he was hopeless at it. We had a rotation— but that’s beside the point. Anyway, I keep up whenever he publishes. The man can make anything sound compelling. You don’t find a lot of academics who can write clearly; it’s like a doctorate turns our heads to mush. He’d written an article about the Guatemala dig in Archeology Today that was… intriguing.”

“Intriguing how?”

Magnos stopped, looking at him a long time, chewing on her lip. Finally, she drew the rubbing out from her bra, and smoothed it on the table.

“You see these?” she asked him, pointing to the lollipop decorations on the side of the rubbing. Phil nodded. “There was a photograph in the magazine, of the walls outside one of the temples they hadn’t excavated yet.”

“Temple B,” Phil said.

“Temple B,” Magnos agreed. “I may be one of the only people alive on this planet that’s seen those decorations before. I can’t tell you where— it had to do with that eyes-only assignment. And it might have been a coincidence, or a bad photograph… but if there was a chance. I wanted to be on that dig. And there was Merlin’s invitation, just waiting.”

“Surely Nick could have just sent you there undercover,” Phil protested. “In fact— why didn’t he?”

“Because I didn’t tell him,” Magnos said. “He’d have tried to make me check in, sent in back-up, probably someone to watch me just in case— everything I needed a break from. But I wanted to know. Badly. It… it was like an itch. So I came here.”

Phil stared down at the symbols himself a moment longer, feeling the puzzle pieces begin to form into a whole in his head.

“You visited Jeffrey, in the archives. Before the trip. Did you find Dugan’s notes? The artifact that had these on them?”

“I did,” Magnos said. “I did indeed. And ultimately, I think they’re what got me pushed off that cliff. But I’m not worried about them at the moment. No, what I’m worried about is the  _ rest _ of this rubbing— the part anyone can read. Well, the part anyone with a working knowledge of Mayan ideograms can read. Because I do, indeed, know what it means.”

Phil leaned forward, pressing up to his knees so he could get a better look at the rest of the rubbing.

“What does it mean?”

“It means— understand this is only approximate.”

“Right.”

“I mean, ideograms can hold several meanings, and this is just a rubbing anyway so sometimes you can’t differentiate. But there’s enough redundancy that I’m fairly confident I’ve got the general jist of it correct.”

Yes, if nothing else, Magnos was certainly an authentic academic. As soon as she thought she had someone convinced she started to worry and backtrack.

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” he said.

“No, I would not. Very well. The stelae describes the temple’s purpose. It is… it was built to house the power of… of people before the people, or beyond the people, or people of the… the translation’s uncertain. It housed an artifact, one that only the priests could use. Meant to summon the power of… of ‘the head of the one beyond the stars,’ which the stelae also calls ‘the king who was and will be.’”

“Somehow I don’t think they mean Arthur.”

“There are parallels— the return of a lost king, the raising of an army. Well, raising or building or— again, it’s an odd text. I can’t be completely sure. But the point is, whoever has the artifact, whoever uses it, will somehow get an army.”

“The artifact is here at Driftless?”

“Unless I’m very wrong, yes it is. Came back with everything else. And not just for show, either— it’s being used. In fact, I— who’s that?”

Magnos shot up as a shadow moved outside the windows.

Phil pulled himself up into a defensive crouch, feeling around for a weapon. Most of them were upstairs, but Clint had taped a moderately-sized bowie knife to the underside of the coffee table. Phil had the tape half peeled off before a scrape at the door, a jiggle of the handle, stopped him.

Whoever it was coming in had a key. Which meant it was—

“Clint,” Phil sighed, as the door opened. Clint was standing framed in it, frowning at them both. “Come in, I’ve got news.”

Clint stepped inside, closing the door behind him— which was when Phil realized he still had one hand behind his back.

“Are— you okay?” he asked, going wary. Clint had turned to stare at Magnos, still with that blank give-nothing-away face. Had he discovered something about her? Was she compromised after all? Phil started slipping his hand back towards the knife.

“Clint?” he asked.

Clint blinked, turned towards him, and finally took his hand out from behind his back.

He was holding an atlatl, complete with projectile. As Phil watched in frozen horror, Clint raised it, aimed at him, and let the projectile fly.

####

Later, Phil would never remember ducking. He only knew that he must have; Clint didn’t miss, and the projectile point scraped his shoulder rather than killing him. What did register in the moment was the arc that the coffee cup prescribed in the air above his head, trailing lukewarm liquid, as Magnos threw it at Clint’s head.

Clint avoided it easily, but it threw him off balance just long enough for Phil to pop the coffee table vertical and shove it at Clint with his feet. Clint staggered backwards, smack into the TV, which in turn crashed off the TV stand and broke.

“Clint,” Phil had time for, “what the hell—” before Magnos began pulling him towards the back door. 

Clint’s face contorted at the question. He hesitated momentarily, before bending in half as if his stomach had suddenly cramped.

Phil froze, feeling his pulse climb into his throat.

His brain, which had been shoved down and sat on by his body when it went into survival mode, tried valiantly to start back up. All it came up with was  _ what the hell is going on _ and  _ Clint can’t do this, Clint wouldn’t do this, why is Clint doing this—  _ which was both untrue and counterproductive. Clint  _ was _ doing this, no matter how much Phil’s brain tried to deny it.

But maybe the crouching was a sign that Clint was going to stop? That the sudden nightmare Phil’d dropped into would end?

Clint straightened up, the bowie knife in his hand, and Phil stopped hoping.

At least Clint didn’t seem inclined to throw the knife; he raised it instead and sprang forward, attempting to stab Phil.

Phil reached out blindly, grabbed the nearest likely object, and used it to block Clint’s thrust.

It turned out to be a record, and Clint’s blow broke it in two. 

Phil promptly used both broken halves to lash out, slashing at Clint until he retreated a step. A long red slice appeared on his left arm.

_ God, I hurt him. I hurt Clint _ . Phil froze, staring at the wound.

“Dammit Coulson, run!” Magnos yelled behind him. 

Right. It wasn’t just him in the apartment; he couldn’t afford to fight it out with Clint and see who won— and who ended up dead, if Clint kept attacking the way he was.

Phil dropped the halves of the record— Fishbone’s  _ Truth and Soul _ , of course, it couldn’t be anything in print— and took off after Magnos. He ducked through the door just as the bowie knife thudded in the other side, and yanked it closed. The tip of the knife was poking through the wood— damned cheap hollow-core doors.

“What now?” Magnos asked, staring around the claustrophobic little interior corridor that led down to the basements and into the other apartments. “How do we get out?”

Phil’s pulse was thudding in his ears now. Down to the basement and try and fling a washing machine at Clint, or hide, or both? No, of course not. Out through one of the other apartments? Clint would just follow, and Clint not only had speed and endurance on them both, anything he picked up could be a projectile. Anyway, it might just turn the neighbors into collateral damage.

The tip of the bowie knife disappeared from the door Phil was holding. Clint rattled it, yanking hard. Phil yanked back, nearly dislocating his shoulder with the effort— but it stayed closed. He heard Clint give a long, frustrated kind of groan, something nearly inhuman.

Magnos was trying all the doors in the corridor— each of which was, of course locked. 

“Which one?” she hissed at Phil. He glanced around again. They were just going to have to risk it and hope no one was home.

The back neighbors led away from the street— fewer bystanders to get caught up, when Clint chased them down. That would be— no.

“Wait.” Phil said out loud. “That one. Just kick it in.”

Magnos, SHIELD-trained even if she was a scientist, kicked hard. The lock and door jamb splintered and gave way.

“Go hide,” Phil told her, just as the door he was holding gave another rattle. 

“Hide?” she asked. “You crazy? Run!”

“Hide,” Phil repeated. “ _ Trust _ me.”

She disappeared inside. Phil let go of the doorknob and followed after her.

Behind him, the door to his apartment was flung open and a record sailed through, bouncing off the space Phil’s neck had been a moment before. Clint appeared in the doorway, searched, found Phil still standing on the downed door from the apartment next to theirs.

Phil backed further into the apartment, hoping Magnos had found a good hiding spot.

Clint advanced, tightening and loosening his grip on the knife as he did, his face alternately scrunching up like he was in the grip of an overwhelming anger, and going completely blank.

_ Please _ , Phil prayed,  _ please let this work _ . He reached out blindly and found the first heavy thing he could to use as a defensive weapon.

Clint paused in the doorway with his eyes dark and his knife raised high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As JHSC says, "I am forcibly escorted to the cliffhanger."
> 
> Next time: will Phil and Elena survive? Will Clint? What's happening back at the sinister archaeology lab? What does Dr. Jones know? If there are 5 chapters left, how many are likely to have cliffhangers? Chapter 10 posts either July 22 or 29, depending on the other things going on in the author's life.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starts with a jackalope, ends with a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to be coy: there's a cliffhanger.
> 
> Also, several new content warnings. Please check the new tags, or check the end notes for more details. They are spoilery.

The jackalope stared up at Phil admonishingly from the daylilies, his face reflected in its iridescent pupil. Phil supposed he deserved to be glared at— he was the one who’d flung the jackalope away as he and Magnos had fled the neighbor’s apartment at high speed a few moments previously. They’d collapsed in the grass, panting, and letting the horror of what they’d just experienced dissipate a little in the morning sun. Not that they had anything like the time it was going to take to recover from that.

Phil raised himself reluctantly, and reached out to flip the jackalope to its other side.

Now a pinkish eye, set so its red pupil rolled back against the lid, was uppermost.

“I’m not sure the wall eye is better than the walleye eye,” Magnos sighed. 

“Yeah, me either,” Phil agreed, staring forlornly at the thing. “I apologize. I’d never been inside—I only had Clint’s reaction to go on, and he refused to tell me what happened in there. If I’d known….”

“It’s still better than being decapitated with an LP,” Magnos said briskly. 

She sat up and brushed off her skirt, then held out a hand to Phil. 

“I suppose,” Phil agreed, though he was only about 90% sure decapitation wouldn’t have been kinder. He flashed on the memory of Clint, knife raised as he attacked them. That image was going to haunt him for a long time. 

“It wasn’t Clint.” Magnos’s voice was gentle, and Phil looked up to find her face was equally so. “Remember what the translation said about the Temple B artifact: ‘to control an army’. It must be some kind of mind control device. That wasn’t Clint, it was whoever was controlling him. Miranda, I’d guess— unless Merlin’s a better liar than I thought. Or…” she petered off. “No. It’s Miranda. Of all of them, she’s the one I can see with the megalomania necessary to think she can create an army out of brainwashed undergraduates. That must be what happened to Ellen and to the history major.”

“Hudson,” Phil said automatically, trying to drive away the memories of Ellen that crowded to mind: the photo of her corpse, laid out on a table; of her wild face as she attacked him, of the fear in her eyes. He hadn’t seen Hudson, but he couldn’t imagine the kid had gone any more easily than she had. Was that what Clint was in for now? He let Magnos lift him up. 

“But Clint was still in there, at least a little bit,” Phil continued, bending down to brush the grass off his knees so that he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “Otherwise this wouldn’t have worked and we’d be dead. Miranda Burgoyne had no reason to fear that apartment.”

“I think our friend here was a fairly good reason,” Magnos said, waving her hand at the jackalope. “Not the finest example of its species, is it?”

Phil had to agree. The specimen seemed to have been put together from spare parts: one deer antler and one antelope, terribly mismatched in size; one fish eye and one albino raccoon eye, also mismatched in size. There was a permanently confounded expression on its face. The rabbit body curved like a frightened cat’s and was either mangy or moth-eaten— it was hard to be sure. 

Maybe anyone would have had Clint’s reaction when Phil’d used it as a shield: he’d taken one look at it, screamed, and backed straight into the far wall. As he’d lifted his hands to shield himself against the jackalope, he’d dropped the knife— then dropped to his knees, cowering. Phil should have run then, he knew he should have— but he couldn’t.

Clint had clearly been in distress, shaking his head faster and faster and muttering to himself. It switched, Phil thought, between “no, no, no, no, no” and “go, go, go, go, go.” Clint rocked forward, then back, as if fighting his own feet. And then, before Phil could get his frozen feet to move and his frozen lungs to unlock, he looked straight up.

“Phil?” he’d whined, his eyes wide and hurt. “Phil, please.”

Please what, Phil didn’t find out— Clint gave another little cry, flung himself away from the wall, and disappeared back into their own apartment.

“He’s running away!” Magnos had cried, and Phil had run to the front window to peer through the venetian blinds with her. Clint was just disappearing down the path through the cooperative— the one that led through the woods and back to campus. Much as he wanted to go after Clint, Phil knew he didn’t have a hope in hell of catching him. 

Anyway, he was fairly sure he knew where Clint was headed— back to the Anthropology lab and whoever it was who was controlling him. Either that, or Clint was just circling around, waiting for Phil and Magnos to decide it was safe and come out. He almost hoped it was that; at least it would keep civilians from getting in Clint’s way and getting hurt.

Phil winced at the thought. He needed to get word to SHIELD, badly. This was nothing he and Magnos could handle on their own. But if Clint had circled back their apartment might not be safe— and neither would going outside.

He’d turned around to see if the apartment had a phone just as Magnos flipped on a light, and the true extent of the taxidermical horrors became apparent. As they stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, from every corner glass eyes set in moth-ridden fur stared back at them. Phil finally spotted a corded telephone, the receiver cradled in the paws of a deformed stoat. When he looked closer, he realized that the receiver itself was covered in mouse fur, with a little face on one end. Over the years in SHIELD, Phil had seen some truly nightmarish sights, and put his hands on many things he’d prefer never to remember. But he wasn’t sure he could force himself to pick up that telephone.

An instant later, the question had become moot. They heard a creak and shuffle from above. Then a faint mutter, and the sound of a footstep on the stairs. Phil decided that he’d rather take his chance with a mind-controlled SHIELD agent, then face whoever was coming down to meet them.

Which was how they’d ended up panting on the lawn, with a woebegone jackalope in the daylilies next to them. If Clint did show, Phil figured he’d try using the jackalope against him again.

“Okay,” Phil said, deliberately turning his mind away from the jackalope, and from the look he’d seen in Clint’s eyes. “Okay, we need a plan. Can you tell me why Miranda Burgoyne wants a zombie undergraduate army? What’s she planning to do with it?” 

Magnos shrugged.

“Why does anyone? Being Department Head does screwy things to some people. I wish I could tell you. Does it matter right now?”

“It might— depends on how far she’s gotten. Well— and whether she’s figured out Clint and I are SHIELD. And why she sent him after me. Or if she sent him after  _ you  _ instead. Arg!” 

Phil kicked the jackalope in frustration. It flipped over twice and glared at him again, pink eye up. He closed his eyes against the image and forced himself to control his breathing.

“We need back-up. We’re in way over our heads here. Without Clint, I don’t….” Phil paused, swallowing down sudden nausea at the thought. “Due respect, you’re not a trained field agent, and I don’t know what’s waiting for us. She could have mind-controlled the entire football team. Look, there’s a panic button in the apartment under the coffee maker. That’ll go straight to Jasper’s team. They can be here in— ”

“Not SHIELD,” Magnos snapped. He opened his eyes to find her glaring at him with the same ferocity as the jackalope. “You’ll get us all killed. I told you, you  _ cannot trust them _ , Coulson.”

“Well why the hell  _ not?”  _ he asked, flinging his hands up. “You were willing to trust  _ me _ . I’m guessing means you trust Fury, right? At least a little. Elena— we can’t get Clint back alone. If—  _ if _ we can get Clint back. If it’s not already too late.” Phil paused there, because his breath had stopped.

Ellen had died. Hudson had died. Used up, or killed? Was it even possible to get Clint back? No, he decided, as ice formed in his gut. No, it had to be. He’d seen Clint struggling to get free— unless that was just an atavistic fear of bad taxidermy, floating up from Clint’s hindbrain. But he had to try, he  _ had _ to believe that SHIELD could help.

The alternative was… if Phil dwelt too long on what the alternative was, he was going to collapse right where he was on the lawn and be no use to anyone, Clint least of all. He was an Agent of SHIELD. He had a job to do. And if he’d gotten good at anything over the years, at any one goddamn spy skill, it was compartmentalizing.

Phil took a deep breath, opened a box in his brain, and stuffed Clint in it. Then he slammed the lid shut.

“Right,” he said, looking Magnos square in the eye, “Talk to me. Tell me what makes you think we can’t trust SHIELD, who you propose we trust instead, and how we neutralize the artifact.”

Magnos just stared at him, mouth open.

“Wow,” she said after a moment, “if I’d had any doubts you were really a senior agent, they’re gone now.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Phil sighed. “But I’d appreciate an explanation more.”

“Okay.” Magnos licked her lip, nodding a little to herself. “Okay. It’s short enough, god knows: a week before I was pushed over a cliff, a man who said he was from SHIELD came to see me— to check in, he said. But he seemed to think I wasn’t really on sabbatical, he kept trying to get me to give him a status update to send back to Fury. I thought it was a little odd, but not suspicious. But then, the day before I was pushed over a cliff, several people I recognized from SHIELD visited the dig site. Merlin and Miranda took them into Temple B. They never spoke to me, but suddenly? Schedules shifted and I was moved to the test pits on the market square, far as you could get from Temple B. And afterward— I mean, after I climbed back up the cliff I’d been flung off and limped into town— the first thing I did was go to my hotel room. I needed to contact Fury.”

“Only you didn’t,” Phil filled in for her, leaning forward. “So far all this could be coincidence. There’s more?”

“Oh yes. When I got back to the room, the door was ajar. So, I went around to the next room, climbed from that balcony to mine, and intended to enter that way. The agent, the one who’d visited me before, was sitting in my room. Waiting. In the shadows. With what I’m quite sure was a silenced gun— which made me think he wasn’t there to welcome me back.”

“Maybe he was waiting to see if anyone else would try to sneak into your room?”

“Nonsense. If it were you, would you shoot whoever came through that door?”

“Depends on who I thought might come through the door,” Phil said, but his heart wasn’t in it. She was right— that was what tasers were for. Or a charming smile and a plausible excuse. Dead people didn’t provide half as much intel as live ones. “You’re sure they were SHIELD? Absolutely sure? They could have been faking it.”

“Well,” Magnos said, “I followed the man when he left the hotel room, and he went straight to a cafe outside the American Embassy— and to Alexander Pierce.”

It hadn’t been often in his career that Phil was left totally speechless, but after a long struggle all he could find to say about that revelation was:

“Jeez.”

Magnos laughed, a dry, humorless little rattle. “You see why I came back incognito.”

Phil saw. It could still be coincidence. Pierce might not be in on it; it was hard to believe he  _ could _ be. Except that he kept showing up at Driftless. Except that Clint had been turned only a few days after Pierce had seen him and Phil in the archeology lab. If Pierce were in on it, if he’d asked Fury— Jasper’s team might be compromised now, even if they hadn’t been originally. 

Phil sighed. “ Goddamnit. Okay. I assume Burgoyne is at the archeology department, because that’s where they’ve kept the artifacts so far. Why bother with another location? It’s possible Clint’s going back there, or that she’s got another use for him. Either way, she has to be our target. Without a controller, there’s no army.”

“Sensible,” Magnos agreed. “And hopefully within our capacity. I have a contact in the department who’s been feeding me information. Someone I do trust.”

Jones, Phil thought. Of course. She’d have acted as Magnos’s eyes in Guatemala after Magnos left, and it explained why she kept turning up wherever Clint and Phil happened to be. Judging by Clint’s experience in the steam tunnels, she was capable and quick-witted. She might not be SHIELD, but she’d do.

“Okay. And I assume we have Phyl, too? Good. I’ve done more with less. Our weapons are in the foot locker upstairs. Let me get them and— what the hell?”

Magnos slewed around, just as a campus police car came around the corner, bumped over the curb, and finally came to a halt smack dab in the middle of their daylilies, crushing the jackalope under the front right wheel. Christ, had their mad taxidermist neighbor called the cops on them? This was going to be a fun conversation. Maybe he could get her to arrest the neighbor instead, for post-mortem perverting of the natural order.

Phil straightened up and tried to look innocent.

“Phillip Moore,” Captain Schunk said as she stepped out of the vehicle, “you’re under arrest on suspicion of kidnapping and assault of Milo Carvalho. Anything you say—”

“What the actual fuck,” Phil yelped. 

Schunk huffed at the interruption, and glared at him.

“ _ Anything you say _ ,” she continued, “can be used against you in a court of law.”

Phil glanced over at Magnos, who was staring at him wide-eyed, then back at Schunk who, was still doggedly Mirandizing him. 

Her back-up, a gormless undergrad with a bowl cut, was staring at him through the windshield. Knocking Schunk out wasn’t an option, then, as much as he wanted it to be. The undergrad would just call for back-up and he’d have to deal with a manhunt as well as a maniacal professor, a mind-control machine, and a missing husband.  _ Fake _ husband. A missing fake husband.

It was a measure of his desperation at that point that he still had to think hard about his next step. Schunk’s chin was right there, and oh-so-punchable.

The kid inside the car raised a radio to his lips. 

“Fine,” Phil said finally, and held out his hands. “Let’s go.”

Schunk made him put his hands behind his back before cuffing him and stuffing him in the back of the cop car. As she did, he managed to mouth to Magnos  _ Go get Jones _ . He hoped she’d understood. Even if she hadn’t, she was SHIELD-trained, and had survived on her own this long. She’d find Jones and Phyl and… and something. Meanwhile, Phil had to concentrate on escaping from whatever this was intact, and in time to rescue Clint.

As they drove off, Magnos stood on the ruined lawn, the splintered remains of the jackalope staring up at her, watching the car. Just before they turned the corner, Phil saw her step back, and head off towards campus.

 

####

As the car sped back towards campus, Phil leaned forward towards the bars that separated the front and back seats.

“So Milo’s gone missing?” he asked, using his best innocent voice. “Since when?”

Schunk glared at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Cut the crap, Moore,” she said. “We have witnesses who say you and Ford were talking to him at the party last night. You disappeared early then, too. Didn’t even stay for the fireworks.”

“Had more than my share of explosions in my proximity already this lifetime,” Phil returned. “Yes, we turned in early. But  _ not _ with Milo Carvalho.” Perish the thought. 

“Remains to be seen.” Schunk tightened her hands on the wheel and sped up just a little. “Right now, Moore. You and Ford look like the last ones to see him alive—”

“He’s  _ dead _ ?” Phil asked, a little taken aback. “That’s not what you said when you arrested me.”

He thought of the text from Cassie to Clint. She’d mentioned Milo, hadn’t she? Maybe if he could get word to her, he could get a quick alibi. Assuming she was still all right.

“He’s disappeared,” Schunk grumped. “You better hope he doesn’t turn up dead.”

“I honestly don’t understand why you’re so sure we had anything to do with it,” Phil tried. “I barely knew the man.”

“Ellen Gideon,” Schunk said, taking a sharp right. “Hudson Tanner. Both dead. We know you had an… encounter with Ellen. We know you had opportunity with Hudson—”

“We didn’t even _ know _ Hudson,” Phil interjected.

“Don’t act innocent; he worked in the archives. Hard to believe you never met him. See, we really don’t lose that many students around here. Especially not in the summer. At least we didn’t— until you two came to town.”

“That’s… not exactly conclusive evidence,” Phil started.

“What happened in your townhouse?” Schunk cut him off. “Looks violent. Gonna have to get my people out there to search it.”

Where they’d find the footlocker, presumably. Phil sighed, trying to beat back the migraine and the desperate need to get out and find Clint, both of which were creeping up on him. She might be wrong about who’d killed Milo, but Phil was fairly certain she was right that he was dead. His behavior at the party had been off— and that hadn’t been the first time, according to Clint. In hindsight, he’d probably been the third victim of mind-control.

Phil thought of Milo, the first time he’d met him as he came slouching towards home with Clint at twilight. His eyes darting as he peered around a lilac bush at them.  _ Ugh—  _ poor kid. Poor kids, all of them. He hoped none of them had seen it coming. 

“You need a war— “ he cut off as Schunk’s radio crackled to life.

“Captain Schunk?” said the dispatcher, voice clipped. “We’ve got a 11-71 at the Borlaug. Two ladders on their way. Evac in progress.”

“ _ Shit _ ,” Schunk said, and spun the car around. Phil slammed back against the back seat. “On my way.”

She hit the lights and screamers, and bumped off the road onto the broad path that led down the main quad. Phil could already see a thin stream of acrid smoke, rising in the distance. The Borlaug was on fire.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

He had no idea how it fit in, why Burgoyne— or whoever— would want to burn the library, but he was also a field agent, and SHIELD had taught him well, if harshly. When something blew up that you weren’t expecting, it didn’t take a big leap to assume the worst. 

Phil stared out the window, watching the smoke cloud grow, and feeling his desperation begin to overtake him. He couldn’t deal with any of this— not Clint, not mind-control, not dead students nor library fires— from inside this stupid cop car.

Most importantly—  he needed to find Clint. He needed to find Clint  _ right now. _

####

They arrived at the Borlaug in time to see the students and staff streaming out from every exit and no ladder trucks in sight, though from the nearness of the sirens it wouldn’t be long. Schunk swore and leapt from the car, disappearing into the crowd.  Presumably she’d gone in search of the head of emergency committee to check on the evacuation. Dispatch was still spitting updates out of the radio at high speed. There was no one to answer them; Schunk’s student partner was just sitting in the passenger seat, bewildered. 

Finally, Schunk’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Anderson. Get out here  _ now _ .” 

The kid jumped, cracking his head against the car roof, then flung his door open and ran out to join her in the melee. He failed to close the door behind him.

Left to his own devices, Phil hunched down and looked out the windshield. The smoke was getting thicker, pouring out of the back of the building in a steady stream and beginning to creep from one of the side doors as well. Given the concrete bones of the building and the copious fire doors inside, the fire would have to move slowly. Phil doubted the whole thing was even capable of going up in flames.

Ah, but the  _ books _ would. The building would turn into an oven, and everything inside it to ash.

Phil fought down the stutter of his heart at the thought, in favor of practicalities.

The firefighters would be here soon to take care of the fire.  _ That _ , at least, was not his catastrophe to prevent. But if he wanted to prevent the other, if he wanted to find Clint and stop Burgoyne’s nefarious plans— whatever they were— he needed to get out of this stupid car, and fast.

Phil tested his cuffs cautiously. Dislocating his thumbs would be effective— if painful— but it would still leave him trapped in the backseat. And with injured hands. Removing the grill that separated the front seats from the back would take far too long. Kicking out the window would be conspicuous, but if he had to—

“Moore? Phil?”

Peter Mahakian’s voice intruded on Phil’s thoughts, just a moment before his head poked in the front passenger door, looking bewildered. “What are you doing in here?”

“Getting a ride,” Phil told him, pasting on his Dealing With Civilians smile. “But we got distracted.”

“Oh? Oh— by the fire. I see.” Mahakian nodded. “Well, okay then. I’ll leave you to it.” He made to stand up.

“Hey Peter,” Phil said quickly, “can you open my door? You’ll need to unlock it from the front, there.”

It was, to say the least, a long shot. He held his breath, trying to appear as calm, innocuous, and in control as possible. But— 

“Sure,” Mahakian said, as casually as if Phil had asked to borrow a pen. He unlocked the doors— and opened Phil’s, for good measure.

Phil barely waited until the door was all the way open before rolling out. He brought his knees up to his face and pulled his hands beneath his butt and around to the front. Mahakian just stood on the lawn and blinked at him, apparently not at all disconcerted to find Phil a) in handcuffs and b) bendier than the average doctoral student. Phil wondered briefly if Mahakian had seen some shit in his own time, or just had a raging case of academic myopia. Either way, he’d just saved a lot of time.

“Thanks,” Phil told him sincerely. “Um… you don’t have a paper clip on you, by any chance?”

Mahakian did, and a moment after receiving it Phil had picked his cuffs and tossed them onto the back seat of the police car.

“What’s up with the fire?” Phil asked as he rubbed his wrists.

“Not sure,” Mahakian said. “I was up in 210 getting ready for class when the alarm went off.”

“Which way did you go? Was your evac route clear?”

“My eva— yes. Uh, we went down stairwell A and out through the lobby. It was fine— I think someone said the stairwells back by the elevators were pretty smoky, though.”

Phil froze.

The elevators.

The  _ archives. _

Jeffrey’s only way out was through the elevators— and only once the firefighters had arrived to start them manually. They’d have shut down as soon as the alarms went off.

But the ladder trucks were only just coming around the far corner of the block, and if the elevators were already filled with smoke, Jeffrey wouldn’t be there waiting when they went down to get him. Or else, he wouldn’t be conscious.

Clint was just going to have to wait.

Unless… unless this was where Clint had gone next, and the fire was his doing. There was no rational reason it would be— but the whole morning had been irrational, so why not this too?

Either way, Phil’s course of action was the same.

“Fuck,” he sighed, and took off, leaving Mahakian staring after him.

He headed for the side entrance that Phyl had showed him his first day in the archives, the one that led directly to a stairwell and the basement. The smoke hadn’t reached that door yet— but it had the next one to the back, near the loading bay.

“Fuck.  _ Fuck _ .” 

He barely had the presence of mind to test the handle before he yanked— cool, still. Thank god.

Phil slammed the door open— and someone behind him caught it.

“Ope, right behind ya,” Phyl said, her voice practically in his ear. “If he tried for the elevators, he’d be down the hall to the right, when we get down. There are two fire doors he’d have to get through. I’ll lead, I know the way.”

Phil didn’t even bother being surprised.

“’If’?” he asked her as they raced down the first flight of stairs. “Any other exits he could try for?”

“Steam tunnels. Maybe locked.”

The air in the stairwell was beginning to grow thicker around them, not smoke-filled yet, but close enough that his nostrils and throat were starting to burn. Phyl tugged at the chiffon scarf around her throat, turning it into a makeshift mask. Phil, with no such useful accessories, raised the neck of his shirt to cover his own airways.

Phyl flung herself around the last landing on the way to the basement— and they both stopped short.

Jeffrey was halfway up the stairs, his wheelchair abandoned at the bottom of the stairwell. He was pulling himself up using both guard rails, dragging his legs behind him. 

“Jeff!” Phyl gasped, and he looked up at them, blinking rapidly to clear his reddened eyes.

Phil and Phyl hurried down the stairs to grab his arms, lifting him to dangle over their shoulders.

“Ready?” Phil asked Phyl, and she nodded. They started backing up the stairs.

Jeffrey coughed once, twice, then growled.

“Damnit, I’m faster on my own.”

“You’re not,” Phil told him. “And we’ve got a lot of steps left.”

He felt every one of the damn steps, too, in his aching lungs and knees, in the weight on his shoulders. But they got Jeffrey up them eventually, and a firefighter scooped him up and took him the last distance.

“All clear?” the firefighter asked as they got outside. 

Jeffrey nodded. 

“Gonna leave you here; EMT’s will be along in a jiff,” the firefighter said, and trotted back off towards the front of the building. 

After he left, Jeffrey’s face screwed up anxiously.

“At least I  _ think _ it’s all clear, anyway,” he said. “If the fucking arsonist got out in time.”

The  _ who?”  _ Phil snapped, pain and sudden anxiety removing his vocal control.

“Arsonist,” Jeffrey said, then coughed. “Or arsonists— not sure. Someone threw a fucking molotov into the archives while I was there.”

“Into the  _ archives?”  _ Phil blanched. “How did you— how are you here?”

“I tipped a bucket over on it before it got far— and then someone ran by the door and flung sand on the rest of it. Not sure where they even  _ got _ sand— maybe the construction equipment they never took out of the janitor’s closet? Anyway, the archives are okay.”

“Thank god,” Phil sighed. The thought of the Dugan archives going up in flame was, it was… it was almost as great a desecration as the thought of Clint, mind-controlled. Today had been enough of a nightmare already. “But you think the arsonist was still down there?”

“Well they started a fire somehow— must’ve either lost the guy with the sand or the guy ran out of sand, I dunno. Alarms went off right after, so they didn’t take the elevators. And they didn’t come back up the corridor while I was wheeling down it.”

There were two people down in the basement, still. And the firefighters were concentrating on the upper floors.

And one of them— well one of them might be Clint. If the arsonist had targeted the Dugan archives— where Hudson had worked, where Phil had found the records of the curious artifacts— that suggested the fire was linked to everything else. 

Phil tried a deep breath, and started to cough. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

“Take care of Jeffrey,” he told Phyl once he could breathe evenly again. He gently unwound her scarf from her throat, then wound it around his own face. As he raced back across the lawn towards the building, he heard both of them cursing behind him.

The air was far thicker in the stairwell now, and Phyl’s scarf wasn’t going to be enough protection for long. And if Phil misjudged down there, if he passed out— well. There would be no one except Magnos to help Clint. Or no one at all, if Clint was the one who’d started the fire. 

The corridors had never felt longer or more winding. Phil turned down the one closest to the archives, pressed his hand to the handle of the closest door. 

They were hot. He glanced at the plaque on the door— admin storage. Of course. It was a huge space carved out of the center of the building, and while its outer walls were thick concrete, it’s inner walls had been partitioned with plywood and chicken wire. The whole thing could be in flames, heating the building from below. If anyone was in there, it was too late for them.

Phil turned away from the door, feeling his heart twist. (And his lungs— but those had been twisting for a while, now.)

He’d turned halfway around before he saw the aliens.

No. The smoke was getting to him. Not aliens, soldiers in gas masks. Ghosts.

No  _ again _ . Phil shook his head to clear it.

It was two people, wearing gas masks he recognized from the Dugan archives— and one of them looked awfully like Dr. Jones. What she was doing there he couldn’t imagine, and just at the moment didn’t care. What mattered was that she was schlepping an unconscious form along with her, propped against her shoulder with one arm flung around her neck. The form was also wearing a gas mask, but it kept slipping off.

Phil darted forward to take the figure’s other side, and they hurried for the stairs.

The man didn’t  _ feel _ like Clint, anyway. Too short, too weedy. 

Phil’s head was light by the time they reached the top, but he couldn’t afford the time to care— though he did spend a few minutes gulping in fresh air on the grass. At some point, an EMT arrived with an oxygen mask, and Phil took it gratefully. Jones accepted one, too, though she set it down to catch the attention of the EMT who was leaning over the man they’d rescued.

“ _ Careful _ of him,” she said. “He’s the one who set the fire. Basement. Admin storage. I… I don’t know if he’ll be rational when he wakes up.  _ If _ he wakes up.”

Phil looked over at the man again, and did a double-take. Crumpled and soot-stained the man might be, but he was still recognizably Milo Carvahlo.

Definitely not dead— yet. But clearly not in good shape. And, given what Jones had just said, potentially not in control of his own mind.

_ Ugh _ .

“Oh my,” Phyl sighed, from behind Phil. He handed her back her scarf, his hands shaking.

He tried not to feel bad about the intensity of the relief he felt about discovering Clint wasn’t the arsonist.

Unfortunately, that meant Clint was still out there somewhere, under Burgoyne’s thrall. 

“Phyl,” Phil snapped, rising, “I’ve got to go find Clint. Whenever Captain Schunk gets here, please let her know we’ve found Milo Carvahlo and there’s no need to thank me. I’m happy to help her case. Use those exact words.”

He took off, realizing only as he started running that he wasn’t sure of the fastest way to Forkenbrock— or what he was going to do once he got there.

After a few yards, someone grabbed his arm. He spun, yanking himself free from their grip.

Jones. Again.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on,” she said, looking sooty and determined, “but I’m coming with you.”

Phil sucked down more air and looked her over: if anything, she seemed to be in better shape than he was. Despite the soot, she was breathing evenly, and her eyes were clear within their red rims. 

He could use all the help he could get, he decided. Especially since Jones was already supposed to be at Forkenbrock, and he’d sent Magnos there to find her.

“Has Magnos told you anything about the rubbing Phyl gave her on Monday?” he asked.

“Mag—” Jones’s jaw dropped and her voice spiraled high. Well, clearly Magnos hadn’t told her about  _ him _ . “I— do.  _ Elena _ ? What?”

“She was going to Forkenbrock to find you,” Phil told her. “But you were here instead.”

Jones stared at him, shaking her head helplessly, for a long moment. And then her jaw snapped shut and she straightened up.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm and tugging, “I know where there’s a car we can jack. Way faster than running.”

The car in question, Phil was amused to note, was Captain Schunk’s. The keys were still in the ignition. As Jones hit the lights and sirens, Phil had to admit that of his two trips in the vehicle, he was vastly preferring this one.

####

“First time driving one of these?” Phil asked, as Jones casually turned them down a pedestrian walkway with one hand, while fiddling with the police radio with the other. Dispatch was still going a mile a minute— he couldn’t tell in all the babble if anyone had called in the missing police car yet.

“In this country,” Jones said, giving a firm yank on the mouthpiece.

“Leave it— we may need it,” Phil told her. 

She glanced at him, incredulous.

“What’re you going to do, tell them we had a slight weapons malfunction but everything’s fine now?”

It was at that moment Phil decided that he should start looking at recruitment packets when they got back to SHIELD. He really,  _ really _ liked Jones. 

“I’m keeping the option open. Meanwhile, we can’t use it at all if it’s gone.”

She bobbled her head, granting him the point, while swerving around the lacrosse team, which was out for a collective jog.

“All right, Moore,” she said once the last player had leapt for the bushes on the side of the path, “we’re gonna be there soon, so spill. You implied Milo had gone missing, and let me tell you he damn well wasn’t in his right mind when I followed him to the library. And you said ‘Magnos.’ Now I’m already half convinced you and Ford know something’s up, but that name’s the only thing keeping me from thinking that whatever it is, you’re in on it. So.”

She kept her eyes on the road— er, path— in front of her, but her hands tightened on the wheel and Phil didn’t doubt that she was calculating how best to disable him if she needed to.

“Uh,” he said, grabbing on to the side of the door as she spun them nearly 90 degrees to avoid the campus security golf cart coming at them. “Short answer? Clint and I are agents of SHIELD, and we came to find out what happened to Dr. Magnos. She found me instead— unfortunately, at the same time one of your colleagues used an alien artifact masquerading as a Mayan artifact to mind-control Clint— and Milo, it seems— into attacking us. Magnos should already be at Forkenbrock— hopefully not being attacked by Clint. Or anyone. We have to find her, locate Clint, and your colleagues, and the artifact. Then we neutralize them all. But without SHIELD helping because Magnos thinks there’s a mole. Clear?”

Jones braked so hard Phil’s forehead nearly met the dash. They had reached the front entrance of Forkenbrock, and she’d parked them right between two memorial benches on the broad brick path, but she made no move to leave the car. She just sat staring at him, hair flopping over her eyes.

“Did you inhale more smoke than I thought back there?” she asked incredulously.

“No,” Phil told her, trying to be patient. “Did you?”

“Maybe. I swear I heard you say the words ‘mind control.’ And ‘SHIELD.’ And ‘alien artifact.’ Which— that better not be true, because I don’t want to have to tear up the whole Pseudoarcheology syllabus.”

“We call them 084s, and it’s only a working theory,” Phil said. “I defer to Dr. Magnos.”

“But you’re sure on the mind control,” Jones said, narrowing her eyes. Her voice had gone completely flat.

Phil opened his hands, palm up.

“Yes.”

“Uh huh.” Jones sighed, and stared at the wheel briefly before looking back at him. “And— just because I want to be crystal clear, here— ‘Magnos’ is Dr. Elena Magnos and not some… long-lost aunt or cousin or wife or something.”

“Yes.”

“And she’s alive.”

“Ye— I thought you knew that.” Phil drew back. “I thought that was why you were poking around, following us.”

If not that, what the hell had she been doing? He tensed, waiting to see if she was going to turn out to be something other than an ally, after all.

“No,” Jones said, distress leaking out on the final vowel. “No, I— oh, we don’t have time for this.” She flung up her hands. “Elena’s here. Alive. In a building with whoever it was who presumably tried to off her. And probably some people that person is mind-controlling. One of which is a big, buff ex-soldier.”

Phil winced. Put that way, in retrospect, it had perhaps been not the brightest plan he’d ever had. Though— he’d been a little tied up at the time. 

“Yes— she was going to meet her contact. I thought that had to be you.”

“That  _ should _ have been me,” Jones growled as she flung her door open. “And when I find her, you can bet I’m going to tell her so. Come on, Mo— wait.” She stopped. “You said you were with SHIELD. Who are you really?”

“Let’s go into that later,” Phil responded, acutely aware that their time was running short and his story was long. Magnos didn’t have the back-up he’d assumed she had— and Clint was down there, somewhere. Also, sirens were heading their way and Schunk would soon be upon them. “Can we rescue everyone first?”

“Right,” Jones said, and they plunged inside the doors of Forkenbrock.

####

Phil skidded to a halt just inside the glass doors, stopping so fast Jones slammed into his back. 

“What?” she hissed, and then “Oh, oh fuck.” 

It was, of course, the middle of the day, on a  Thursday, and classes had just gotten out. Which meant that the atrium was be full of students, racing between classes, sauntering down stairs, sitting in corners frantically completing assignments, and just in general bustling. At least— it usually meant that. Today, though, the atrium was crammed with students going nowhere, just milling about. Most of were plastered against the glass panes of the atrium, but a large minority were staring at their phones and tapping madly. 

So they knew about the Borlaug, then.

In the split second it took Phil to assess the scene, he and Jones were noticed. Heads turned their way, and a hush fell in the ranks of students closest to him. It wasn’t the first time Phil’d been stared down by an entire crowd. It was an eerie feeling, the way it felt like he’d caught the attention of a school of massive,oxygen-breathing fish.

That might turn hostile at any moment.

“Hey,” said someone at the back— because there was always one person who was a little slow on the uptake—  “someone on Yamblr just said there’s a fire at the library!”

The crowd groaned. 

Great, they were so in sync they were seconds away from becoming a mob, and they had clearly just seen him and Jones come skidding in.

Luckily, this was exactly the kind of situation they taught at secret agent school.

“There is,” he said, pasting on his best crowd control smile, “and security’s about to lock down campus. They want to clear everyone out in case it spreads. You all need to go home.”

A low muttering greeted this, discontented but not skeptical. He could work with that. Phil was opening his mouth to start suggesting evacuation procedures, when a tall, morose looking white kid with lopsided sideburns piped up.

“That… doesn’t sound like campus security,” he said. “Like… that time the water main broke and flooded out half of the Science building, they didn’t even evacuate the second floor.  You sure?”

“Yeah, that sounds like a recipe for chaos,” said another, from somewhere off to the left, hidden by other, presumably taller, students.

Of course, some crowds were tougher than others. They taught  _ that _ at secret agent school, too. Phil sighed. 

“Look,” he started, but was interrupted by Lopsideburns.

“Anyway, didn’t you just, like, ditch that car outside and run in here? Who’re you anyway?”

Muttered  _ yeahs _ greeted that statement. Great.

“That car is a campus security vehicle,” Phil said, gesturing to it. “Which should explain that.”

He could feel the entire mass of students scrutinizing his gym shorts, his tank top, his sneakers, and the grime all over his face.

“Okay maybe you’re security,” the Lopsideburns said, “o- _ or _ , maybe you stole that cop car.”

For the first time since they’d come to Driftless, Phil really missed his suit. No one accused the suit of stealing police cars. Even when he’d been sitting behind the wheel of one, having driven it half-over a bridge in Venice.

“Don’t be silly, Quentin,” Jones told him, stepping out from around Phil. “I stole that cop car.”

Lopsideburns— Quentin— straightened up so suddenly his bookbag nearly fell off his shoulder.The students around him mimicked his movement, creating a ripple effect through the crowd.   
“You did, Dr. Jones?” he asked, eyes widening.

“Yes,” she said. “And now I’m going to go pull that fire alarm over there, and you’re all going to evacuate. Trust me.”

Quentin made a little head bobble that seemed to say  _ fair enough _ . As Jones wandered over to the fire alarm, she looked back.

“Oh, and— if security asks? You never saw us. Just like that time in Quito.”

Then she pulled the alarm, as casual as anything. 

Phil was absolutely going to talk to Fury about an offer packet, when they got out of all this.

He got out of the way just as the first students hit the door, watching them all begin to flow out into the daylight— which was darkening as both the cloud of smoke from the Borgen and the storm front coming in over the western horizon began to loom.

As the river of students kept running, streaming down the stairs now and hitting the exit points in the back hallways, Phil pulled Jones away and onto the stairs leading to the archeology lab. Those remained adamantly, pointedly, suspiciously closed.

“Okay,” he said, staring at those doors. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Well,” Jones sighed, sounding just as unhappy as he felt,but digging out her keyring, “Elena clearly didn’t evacuate. So if she’s here, she’s probably down there. Which means that regardless of whether your mind-controlled spouse is behind that door, or Elena is, or… or anyone… that’s where I’m going. You do what you want.”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t,” Phil protested. “But given everything, I think you should open the door— but let me go first and clear the room.”

Jones shrugged, and put her key in the lock.

“On your head,” she said. “Maybe literally.”

It nearly  _ was _ on his head, too— when she opened the door, she stepped behind it and Phil stepped to the left, rather than go straight in.

Which was how he narrowly missed being brained by a steel lab stool held by Elena Magnos, who had been standing right in front of the door waiting to ambush him. Benton Lewis was directly behind her, brandishing an office chair that he was holding by its back, his eyes big behind safety glasses. The chair’s wheels spun lazily in the air.

“Oh, it’s you,” Magnos said after a moment, lowering the stool and stepping back. “Good. Took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” Phil told her, coming inside. “There was a fire at the Borlaug. I brought back-up, though.”

Jones stepped around the door.

Magnos’s arms wavered, her eyes widened, and she dropped the stool.

“Um.” She said.

Jones looked down at the stool, then up at Magnos, her face unreadable.

“Hello, Elena,” she said.

Magnos winced.

“Okay, this looks bad. I know you—” she was cut off by Jones swooping forward, grabbing her face between both hands, and kissing her soundly.

Phil closed the door behind them and turned to Bent.

“You can probably put down that chair now.”

“Yu-huh,” Bent said, and did so.

Phil didn’t turn back around until a shuffle and sigh indicated that the women had separated, at least briefly.

They were still tangled together, Jones’s hands around Magnos’s shoulders, Magnos’s around Jones’s waist.

“That’s new,” Magnos breathed, her eyes wide and suspiciously shiny behind her thick glasses.

“It’s really not,” Jones said, sounding wistful. “Damnit, Elena, you should’ve come to me, I would have done anything for you. I wish you’d trusted me.” 

She shook Magnos lightly. Magnos looked helpless, even despairing, for a moment, then put her head down on Jones’s shoulder.

“Oh, misery, I missed you,” she said. “There’s so much I should have told you. But SHIELD had gotten there first— I climbed over to your balcony, when I got back to the hotel. I saw them talking to you. I didn’t… I didn’t know if you were  compromised, too.”

“Okay,I know you said you’d explain later,” Jones grumbled, turning to look at Phil, “but explain later just became explain  _ now. _ You’re SHIELD. Elena— you knew he was SHIELD, right?”

Magnos nodded. She had not, Phil noted, made any move to step away from Jones— and he couldn’t say he blamed her. If Clint had greeted him that way— he shook his head free of that image. Clint needed to stay in the emotional lockbox until he’d been saved.

“… you clearly trust him,” Jones was saying when Phil tuned back in, “but when you thought you saw me talking to SHIELD, you ran away from me?”

“Parts of SHIELD are compromised, not all of SHIELD,” Magnos said, then frowned. “I don’t think. At any rate, not him and Agent Barton. Probably. I mean, until now.”

“I don’t exactly like that answer,” Jones said, looking past Magnos at Phil again and glaring at him, as if daring him to be compromised. “But I still don’t get why you ran. I didn’t talk to SHIELD at all— the only person who came to talk to me was from the Embassy.”

“From the Embassy, yes,” Magnos told her. “But not from the State Department.”

That gave Jones a moment of pause, and Phil took the opportunity to glance back at Bent to see how he was taking the discussion. Bent was glancing back at the corridor that led to the offices and the storage room. Keeping watch. His hand was tapping fitfully against his thigh, and Phil sympathized. With every moment they waited the likelihood that someone— either Captain Schunk or Burgoyne or a mind-controlled Clint— would find them. Also, not least pertinently, every time he stood still he could feel his panic for Clint beating against the lids of its box. He’d been willing to give Jones and Magnos their moment— the moment he couldn’t have with Clint right now (assuming Clint would have even allowed him a moment)— but they had to get moving again soon.

“Okay,” Jones said finally, “I could see that. But why is SHIELD so interested in you?”

Magnos winced.

“I work for them,” she admitted, shrugging.  _ That _ was what made Jones step back from her, though not very far. Magnos shrunk down on herself a little. “Like I said, there’s a lot I should have told you.”

“But it needs to wait until we find Clint,” Phil interrupted. “I take it Bent was your actual contact? I thought it was Dr. Jones; that’s why I brought her.”

“It was Benton, yes,” Magnos said, glancing over at Jones, who was muttering that  _ she’d  _ brought  _ Phil _ . “He wasn’t at the dig, so he seemed my safest bet.” 

The explanation was clearly more directed at Jones than at Phil, and she screwed up her face in an expression Phil read as  _ fair enough _ mixed with  _ for fuck’s sake. _ Again, Phil sympathized.

“To be honest,” Bent said, “I don’t know how much of this shit I buy— alien artifacts and mind control and conspiracies. But without Dr. Magnos, I’ve gotta start my dissertation all over again. So,” he threw up his hands. “Here I am. Rehydrating coprolites and doing a little light espionage on the side. ”

Phil looked between the three of them. Bent still looked nervous, and terribly civilian in his short-sleeved plaid shirt and safety glasses. Jones was still covered in soot and starting to fray at the edges. So was Magnos, given how tightly Jones had embraced her. But all of them were determined, and frankly all of them had a better chance of understanding whatever was going on than he did. He had, he’d decided, had worse back up.

For instance, sometimes he’d had none.

“Okay,” he told Magnos. “Talk to me. What’ve we got?”

“We’re not sure. Bent was in the wet lab the whole time, so he didn’t see anything.”

“Heard voices, though,” Bent said. “Uh, I heard Tess talking with Cassie, then later I heard them and Clint and Dr. Santander… thought I heard you once, Dr. Jones. If anyone came back through after that, I didn’t hear it. They’re here.”

“Right,” Jones said. “I thought I saw Cassie and Clint both go into storage with Miranda and Tess. I asked Merlin about it— that was what you heard. He just shrugged and went back to his office.”

“It’s empty now,” Magnos said. “All the offices are. Storage is locked. I assume that’s where everyone is. Either that or the steam tunnels.”

“Milo went through those,” Jones said. “I don’t think anybody else did. That’s why I followed him— didn’t want him getting lost. Did a great job of that, huh?”

Phil thought of Milo, laid out on the grass in front of the library.

“Would have been worse if you hadn’t gone,” he said. “Okay. I agree with Dr. Magnos— if they’re here, they’re in storage. It would make sense; that’s where the artifacts are stored, presumably including the mind-control device. Dr. Magnos, you read that translation. Can it control…” Phil stopped to count up, “four people at once?”

“The tablet did say an army,” Magnos said. “So let’s assume so. Maybe it’s a good thing you were too involved with your own crap to notice,” she turned to Bent.

“Why do people keep on calling it ‘crap,’” Bent sighed. “Dr. Magnos, you of all people—”

“Okay, so five total, assume four of whom are under control,” Phil cut in. “We’ve got the four of us, so that’s a near match.”

“Four?” Bent cried, backing up until he hit a counter, then raising his hands to fend them off. “No, uh uh. Spying is one thing, but I’m not made for frontal assaults.”

“Dissertation,” Magnos told him.

“Doesn’t mean anything if you die,” he snapped back— then clearly realized what he’d said. “Oh, ugh— if I have to.”

He looked at Phil, clearly hoping Phil would give him an out.

Phil would have liked to give him an out, but then Phil would have liked a great many things and neither of them were going to get what they wanted.

“So, we have four people,” Phil said, and Bent slumped. “I assume one of you can get us in that door. What do we have for weapons? Anything useful in the lab beyond the furniture, or is that mostly in storage?”

“Storage,” Jones replied. “I’ve got a switchblade, though.” 

She slipped it out of her back pocket, and Phil found himself fighting a smile.

“Of course you do. And actually—” he leaned down and dug his own little combat knife out of his sock. “For what good it’ll do.” He passed it on to Magnos. “Now, when we go in, let me take Clint. He’s the only trained fighter. We don’t know what this artifact looks like, or how it does what it does, so in cases like this it’s usually best to assume that if someone’s pointing something glowing at you, or trying to place something on you, or open a book or recite something— basically, dodge, stop them, destroy that thing, shut them up. Um, if that fails, cognitive recalibration is SOP.”

“Cognitive what?” Bent asked.

“Hit them on the back of the head really hard,” Magnos told him. “I’ll take Miranda; I have an idea what I’m looking for.”

“I’ve got Merlin,” Jones affirmed. “We ready?”

“Let’s roll,” Phil said.

 

####

The storage room was empty.

It was a let-down, after what had felt like an awful lot of build-up. The tension had grown between them as they prepared, until they were all breathing in shallow unison. They’d stopped breathing altogether, Phil thought, as they hovered over Jones as she had turned the key in the lock slowly, trying to avoid even the audible click of a tumbler as she opened it. Phil had tried to ease himself the rest of the way into mission mode. He’d packed away higher-order thinking and emotions in favor of instinct and reflex. He’d just slipped into the calm, clear space when Jones began to ease the door open, one hand pressed against the jamb. And Phil’d had a sudden flash, a premonition, that he’d see Clint on the other side. That Clint’s eyes would be blank, that he’d be standing there ready to strike— to kill them all.

That Phil would have no choice, no chance.

But now here he stood in an empty room, his back aching after the forward roll he’d executed into it after vaulting over Jones’s head— he’d assumed his only chance was to go high, tackle anyone who was waiting for them. The others had entered behind him, equally confused by the lack of life in the dim room. The only illumination came from the exit sign overhead, and some mismatched night lights that had been plugged in at intervals down the sides of the cavernous room— likely for navigation purposes. It wasn’t nearly enough to see the details of his companions’ faces but even so he knew the same set of questions was in all their eyes.

He wished he could answer it. 

Out of an abundance of caution, he sent Jones and Magnos to clear the rest of the room. But the silence didn’t feel like a living one— and he’d had long enough to experience the difference. While they worked, Phil and Bent picked carefully through the tools being stored on the wall nearest the door. There wasn’t much in the way of shovels or pick axes or implements of destruction, but Bent found himself a vernier caliper nearly as tall as he was, with a jaw that ended in a wicked spike. It reminded Phil of nothing so much as a medieval halberd, and he squashed the desire to ask what exactly they measured with it— the bodies of their enemies?

Given what he suspected Miranda Burgoyne of doing, that might turn out to be true.

Phil considered and discarded several options of his own. He needed Clint back alive, and wasn’t sure he trusted himself with anything potentially lethal. In the absence of a taser, he’d have to trust his hands to do the trick. 

If, that was, they could figure out where the hell everyone had got to.

When Jones and Magnos rejoined them, Bent handed Magnos a hammer. As she took hers, Jones glanced towards the back of the storage room— and stiffened.

“Do you… hear something?” she whispered. 

Without waiting for them, she slunk down the aisle. Phil followed in her wake and— yes, a few feet down the aisle he heard it too; a muffled sound like someone chanting from the next building over. They looked at each other, and Jones gripped her switchblade more firmly. They moved towards the sound, passing beneath tall shelves loaded down with strange statutettes and half-finished pottery, animal skulls and banker boxes. Antiquity pressed down on them. For a brief moment, Phil thought he might have walked through a portal in time and space, and not the storage room door.

Of course, the ancient world didn’t contain canvas backpacks, and yet there one was, dangling from a hapazardly-stacked pile of site-marking flags on the shelf. There was another bag lying on the floor beneath it— a messenger bag in a pink so hot it glowed even in the near dark. As Phil made his way carefully down the aisle, he encountered more bags and backpacks, scattered on the floor like rose petals from a very large flower girl. Above him, figurines watched from the shelves, goats grimacing, jaguars snarling, and an out of place kewpie doll leering genially downwards. He had the sense he was being laughed at.

The chanting had gotten louder as he neared the back wall, and when he looked down he spotted a little flicker of… something. Phil reached out, encountering cinder block, and grunted. Jones came up beside him and did the same thing.

“Secret passage?” he hissed at her, just a puff of air, and she hissed back an affirmative. Well, at least those he was good with. He let his hands range along the wall, searching for discrepancies in the stone and poking. Jones did the same on her side.

“What’re you doing?” Bent whispered, having come up behind them.

“Secret passage,” Magnos whispered back.

“That… no. That’s stupid. I’d know if—” Bent stopped still, because Phil’s questing fingers had found the weak brick, and he’d pressed it in.

They all leaped backwards, waiting for a groan or a creak or something to give them away. There was none. The door slid into what seemed to be a hollow pocket in the wall nearly silently. It wasn’t much of a relief; you only took the time to keep a secret passageway functioning silently if you had something you needed to use it for. It wasn’t on the normal spring-cleaning list.

The voices were far louder now, echoing as if in a hollow place. And golden light was seeping under the edges of a large curtain that was apparently hanging in front of the doorway. As Phil pulled it back an inch, light revealed a pattern on it, koi swimming on a dark background, their scales etched in gold. One swam over the edge of the curtain, mint green and eyes rolling, and Phil found himself reminded of Ellen— and of nibbling. But that was only a momentary impression, before Phil saw the rest of the scene and decided he must be hallucinating.

Behind him, he felt more than heard Jones curse.

It wasn’t a secret passageway behind the door, it was a whole entire cavern, at least twenty feet high. Phil’s first impression was of standing under the dome of a rock cathedral; the walls rose in stacked horizontal slabs of yellowish rock, narrowing as they reached the enormous flat slab that made up the ceiling. There, near one end of the ceiling, a fossilized cephalopod swam on through the eons encased in limestone.

Someone had set lanterns on the ledges formed by the layers of rock. They were a mixed batch— pierced aluminum and wrought iron that would have been at home in any backyard flower bed, stained glass with flickering candles. There were even a few scattered Coleman lanterns, both oil and LED. They gave off an effect like a flickering patchwork of dark and light, sulphur yellow to cool blue. 

Unlike the storage room, the cavern was far from empty. In fact, it was disturbingly full. Phil winced, remembering the backpacks that had littered the storage room. They must have brought in the entirety of the morning lab class, at least fifteen people.

“Hell of a way to get hands-on experience,” Jones muttered by his side.

Phil shushed her, though it was mostly reflexive. No one was going to hear her, what with the way the students were humming, a low drone, as they shifted back and forth to some shared internal beat. 

In the center of the room, turned in silhouette, stood Clint. He was holding a small student, pinning their arms against their sides. The student didn’t look especially terrified, Phil thought, just a little nervous. 

As they watched, Tess came forward, her face a blank under the flicker of artificial torches, her pink hair glowing. She carried a stone head, which she raised in front of the student. It looked like a skull more than anything, its rictus grin split by the snakes pouring from its lips. Behind Tess, on a slab of fallen rock, stood Miranda Burgoyne herself, a long bronze staff in one hand, helmet topped with goat horns on her head, and her department ID dangling from her neck over the collar of a crimson velvet robe.

“Silence!” she called, “another supplicant approaches!” The humming stopped.

“Wow, being Department Head sure does get to some people,” Jones huffed, sotto voce. “I think she stole that robe from the theater department.”

Burgoyne looked at the student, who blinked back at her the way people do when you’ve invited them to the opera and they’re both tone deaf and don’t speak Italian. 

“Do you come forth to be dedicated to our Lord Alveus, He Who Walks Beyond the Stars, He Who Bringeth the New Age? Will you serve his priests and bring about his reign?” Burgoyne intoned.

The student screwed up their nose, like the question hadn’t occurred to them before.

Which, honestly, how often  _ would _ that question crop up in the course of four years at college?

“We get extra credit for this, right?” the student asked suddenly. Burgoyne reared back, then glanced around herself like she was looking for her grading book.

“Uh… yes, you do,” she told the student. 

“Then yeah, okay, let’s do this,” the student said, bracing.

“The supplicant has been accepted. Child, look upon the Face of Alveus,” Burgoyne said. She raised her staff high, and Tess raised the head in her arms. The student kept their eyes on Burgoyne, jaw going slack.

“Or maybe— maybe there’s another way to do this? I mean, I know my last test was crap,” they babbled. “So I really really need those points, but I dunno, this is kinda weird and—” 

“Look!” Burgoyne roared. 

The student looked.

For the space of a long breath, nothing happened. Phil began to think nothing was  _ going _ to happen— and then, the eyes of the statue turned a cold, glowing turquoise. The light flooded over the student, turning even the whites of their eyes blue. Then the eyes flickered and faded, going dark. The assembled throng roared its approval.

Afterward, the student didn’t seem at all different. Phil held his breath, waiting to see if there would be more.

Burgoyne sniffed, and Tess stepped to the side, leaving Burgoyne facing the student directly.

“As you serve Alveus, so you serve his chosen who wears his helm,” she said. “Come to me!”

She brought the staff down as she said it— Phil only realized when he heard a muffled thump that he’d been expecting it to clang or resonate or something more appropriately dramatic. He supposed that, short of installing a metal plate, Burgoyne could only do so much with the soft grit of the cavern floor. 

The student walked forward slowly, eyes focused forward. Burgoyne dipped one hand down and tipped up their chin.

“Good,” she said, almost fondly. “My first instruction is this: tell no one what you see here, hear here, speak here, or do here or at any time under my command. Even when you are far from my voice, remember this. Do you understand?”

“I do,” the student intoned.

“Good. My second instruction is this: go back to your place, and await my command.”

The student did, slowly, walking as naturally as if nothing had happened at all except the revelation that their professor had an unexpected kink for role play. Perhaps that was why they hadn’t appeared that worried when they came forward. If Phil hadn’t seen the results in Ellen, he’d have assumed the whole ritual was no more serious than the average Masonic rite— and probably a lot less dangerous than the average fraternity hazing. 

Burgoyne turned to the crowd.

“Step forward, the next dedicant!” she cried.

There was some shuffling in the crowd, some muttering— and then someone called out

“I think that’s it?”

Burgoyne turned to Tess.

“Weren’t there sixteen people in this class?”

“I thought so? I didn’t have time to take attendance. Should I get the roster?”

“No, no,” Burgoyne sighed, sounding exasperated. “If this is it, this is it. I suppose someone was skipping again.”

“It was probably Quentin,” one of the students piped up. “He always skips when there’s a quiz.”

“He does get sick a lot,” Tess agreed. “And I don’t see him here.”

Phil thought back to the scene in the atrium, and wondered if it was the same Quentin. Probably— and he’d likely never know that bad study habits had saved him from being brainwashed into being part of a student army of… of… whatever this was. Also, sixteen people was a  _ lot _ further from even odds than he’d envisioned, and most of them were just kids. Victims. He heard Jones muttering next to him, and knew she’d caught it too.

“Stick with the plan,” he muttered back at her. “Neutralize the artifacts.”

“All right, then,” Burgoyne sighed. “Let’s see what you all can do. I— no. First, Clint Barton, come here.”

_ She knows _ , Phil thought, and gulped. And since Magnos hadn’t even told Bent about himself and Clint, there was only one explanation: SHIELD was, indeed, compromised. Perhaps greatly. And Clint had walked straight into a trap that morning.

Burgoyne raised his chin, just as he had the student’s, and Phil fought against the urge to yell at her to get her hands  _ off  _ him. 

“I am torn, Mr. Barton,” she said. “You have been very useful to me. You could be more useful yet. But you failed, too. You failed to kill your partner, and now he and his friend are at liberty. You have become a danger to us, to Alveus. That cannot be allowed. Go, and make sure that Milo did not fail me at the library. If he is not dead, kill him. Then go to the security office, turn yourself over to Captain Schunk, and confess to his murder and to those of Ellen Gideon and Hudson Hake. Make it convincing. If Coulson has not been arrested yet, you will denounce him as your accomplice. When you are both in jail, someone will appear to you with further instructions. They will speak the name ‘Alveus’ and you will follow their instructions as you would mine.”

Those instructions, Phil assumed, would be for Clint to kill Phil— and himself. Make it look like a prison suicide pact.

Clint nodded, his eyes quiet. There was no moment of hesitation, the way there had been when Phil had shoved the jackalope in his face. Phil devoutly hoped that Clint wouldn’t remember any of this later, would never have the image of those stone eyes in his dreams, would never know that he’d come so close to killing them both. Worse yet, how close he might have come to killing Phil and having to live with it. Clint might think he could live past the loss of Phil— and maybe he could— but there was no way he could live with the knowledge he’d  _ killed _ Phil. That much, Phil knew with certainty. 

And the ice in his stomach, the creeping nausea, told him that at last he’d found something that scared him more than the idea of losing Clint. 

As Clint approached the door, Phil gathered himself, flung the curtain back— and leapt.

His shoulder met Clint’s midsection, just like he’d planned. Clint doubled over, all the air driven out of him, as Phil’s momentum carried them both to the floor. Dimly, behind him, he heard Jones roar and Burgoyne yelling furiously.

After that, he couldn’t spare much attention for anything beyond fighting Clint. There was some kind of yelling and thumping, at least one “oh no you don’t” and a curdled-sounding “you!” that he’d later identify as being the moment Magnos revealed herself, but at the moment there was only Clint. Clint beneath him, snarling and bucking upwards. Clint flipping Phil off and then falling on him, trying to get his hands around Phil’s neck. Clint’s breath coming hot and ragged on his face.

Phil reversed their positions again, heaving Clint bodily to the floor, trying to knock his head against the ground and hoping the soft stone was hard enough to give him a good ringing without causing permanent brain damage. There was nothing finely-calibrated about trying to cause a concussion; his only comfort was that anything was better than the alternative. That it was protocol. 

He was mortified to realize, as he grappled, that he was babbling at Clint, pleas that were nearly sobs, nothing coherent at all: “Please Clint, please— stop,” and “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over and over again, the words came out instead of grunts as he slammed Clint against the ground, as Clint tore at his hands and arms. 

All of the distance he carried with him into mission mode had disappeared, the box keeping his feelings for Clint at bay had shattered. He hated himself with each punch and scratch. Hated the feel of Clint’s broad shoulders underneath his hands, Clint’s long, knobby fingers clawing at his face, his knee forcing itself between Phil’s thighs. They were wrestling— which wasn’t usually half as arousing as observers tended to think that kind of fighting would be— and then there was  _ this.  _ This terrible, intimate knowledge that only a week ago, the man he was fighting had held him against a wall with the same arms, the same hands, the same strength he was now using to try and kill him.

Someone cried out above them, and then Clint was bearing Phil down to the floor again. Before Phil could counter, other hands, not-Clint hands, grabbed his wrists and ankles and pinned them down, spread-eagling him. Clint eased himself up, one hand pressing hard on Phil’s sternum in a warning not to try and move.

“This is an intolerable intrusion,” Burgoyne complained. Phil blinked, his surroundings flooding back into his awareness, and looked over at her. Jones and Magnos were both on their knees, with students holding them down and pinning their hands behind them. Buryone looked furious and breathless, her robe half torn from her and her staff lying broken on the floor. But she was still clearly in control, the helmet still sat on her head, and Tess still held the stone head in her hands.

So the staff, at least, had just been there as an accessory— because apparently a huge horned helmet and a stone head vomiting snakes weren’t dramatic enough.

“I’d apologize, Miranda,” Jones said, “but you have a few students of mine in here, and I need them back. Midterms are due on Monday.”

Phil was so recruiting her, and sending her straight to the Science Academy to teach. Or else, he’d make Magnos recruit her. Magnos could probably promise things he couldn’t.

“I’ll sign drop slips for them later, Missouri,” Burgoyne said. Jones winced— at the name, Phil thought, which sounded like a deliberate slight. Was it a nickname? Had Clint ever found out her full name, anyway? 

“Well I’m glad you’re going to do the proper paperwork for your mind-controlled army,” Jones replied. “That’s a real comforting thought. Clearly makes up for the fact that you’ve turned all our students into zombies in the first place. What the  _ hell _ were you thinking?”

“Misery,” Magnos said, and Jones huffed, then settled back. Magnos turned her head towards Burgoyne. “I’m not that shocked at you trying to kill me for your research, or even the whole cult thing you’ve got going here; I’ve seen how being Department Head takes some people. Merlin was insufferable. But what’s the point? What do you think you can actually do with an army of undergraduates? This is remarkably short-sighted of you.”

Burgoyne glowered at her.

“I didn’t try to kill you, Elena. I didn’t touch you at all— that was a happy accident, as far as I was concerned. I suppose it was too much to hope that you really had died. But I’m surprised you don’t see the larger picture. This is only a first step.”

Behind Burgoyne, Tess stirred, looking somewhere other than straight ahead for the first time. Was the mind control starting to wear off? Or were the number of people Burgoyne was trying to control proving too much, with her attention turned solely on the professors in front of her? Silently, Phil cheered Jones and Magnos on.

“A first step,” Jones repeated. “You mean you can’t control the helmet well yet. You’re still experimenting. Then— what? I doubt this thing works by broadcast, which means you have to be up close and personal. Whatever this thing could do thousands of years ago, d’you really think that even if you controlled this whole campus you’d be more than a blip on someone’s radar? I suppose you could find a way to control people who had access to nuclear codes, and that’d do damage, but that doesn’t really sound like you. You’re the one who dug up mass graves for a living. You don’t want war. So what the hell do you think is going to happen here?”

There was a pause, as Burgoyne glared her down, and Magnos and Jones stared back at her. They couldn’t have a hope of getting free; they had three students holding each of them down. So what were they doing? Buying time? For what? Himself? Bent? Who’d disappeared somewhere in the fight. Maybe he was off looking for help— or maybe he’d locked himself in his wet lab and had started looking up other universities with good macrobotanical faculty.

Finally, Burgoyne shifted.

“You heard me call to Lord Alveus, who walks beyond the stars.”

“Yeah… I thought that was just part of the theatrics,” Jones confessed. 

“He was not!” Burgoyne snapped. “There was a time when his name was known and feared all over this planet— and others. He was a liberator.” 

Her shoulders rolled back, and her voice began to grow stentorian. Oh, god, she was going to give them a lecture. Phil sighed.

“Thousands of years ago, aliens came to this planet and took those they found worthy onto their ships. There they experimented on them, created a new race, hidden inside ours. They built themselves cities, pyramids, called themselves our rulers.”

“Oh god no,” Jones groaned. “No, not this pseudoscientific  _ Chariots of the Gods _ garble. I refuse to believe it.”

“You know, this is the kind of epistemic closure that’s always held your work back,” Burgoyne told her, looking disappointed more than anything. “I suppose I should have expected it. No, Missouri, there are traces all over the historical record, if you know where to look or have help. Another race ruled here. The people they created rose up against them. Alveus led them, Alveus the liberator. He drove the aliens away. And then his people turned on him, and sent him to exile on another world.”

“Fucking christ,” Jones muttered.

Magnos took up the thread for her.

“So you thought the stone head would summon Alveus?” she guessed. “Is that what you wanted? The return of an… an ancient god-king? Whatever  _ for _ ?”

“What  _ for _ ?” Burgoyne exclaimed. “Have you seen this planet, Elena? Or are you too attached to SHIELD, too head-down in your own studies to notice how miserable humans are? How terrible? They kill, and maim, and tear children away from parents. They shit where they eat and argue over everything, and throw their dead and their refuse together in the same hole. And all of them believe they’re the most civilized. Is it unnatural to crave order? To search for someone who can stop all this chaos and make us live at peace? Help us reach the potential we could have as a species? The potential that we spit on and refuse?”

“Well, it’s an interesting political philosophy,” Jones sighed. “If not a unique one. And you’ve certainly found a unique way to try and achieve it. But how is all this supposed to bring Alveus back from beyond the stars? Unless you plan on performing a blood sacrifice or something with all these students? Which… doesn’t usually turn out well.”

“It was the stelae, Misery,” Magnos broke in, turning to her. “The one I told you about the night before I fell off a cliff. I translated it yesterday. I can see where she got the idea— it’s a mistranslation, she must have misread it as bringing back Alveus rather than re-creating his power.”

“Ah, okay,” Jones said, like she was conceding an academic point. “I can see that. Ideograms are notoriously messy, and it’s not like translating them was ever Miranda’s strong point.”

“I interpreted it well enough!” Burgoyne growled. “’The power to raise an army.’ That was clear enough. And I  _ have _ .”

“Some army,” Jones scoffed. “It’s not going to bring order to anything, Miranda.”

“Of course it’s not,” Burgoyne told her. “This is only a test. Even for me, the helmet requires some work to learn. But once I can control a crowd, I can control more important crowds— you said so yourself. Only, as you say, I’m not after missile codes.”

“So, what then, the United Nations? Try to bring about world peace?”

“Pah, useless. No. The Board of Regents.”

Phil blinked.

“Okay— what?” Jones asked, clearly as startled as he felt. “Why?”

“We were close, in Guatemala. So close. I could feel it. The portal to Alveus must have been near us. Possibly in the same temple. But the Regents would not approve more digs until they’d finished negotiating with the Guatemalan government. Something about native graves— the University has a blanket policy these days. It’s stupid, because it’s meant to adhere to NAGPRA, and I told them, I  _ told _ them that’s domestic only and the Guatemalan government was fine. I’d showed them all my permits, but no. Bad publicity is apparently bad publicity. So short sighted. I couldn’t wait for that. I  _ won’t.”  _

Once again, Tess looked over at her. Phil bit his lip, and started to quietly test the strength of the students holding his arms.

“Wait, back up— you want the Regents to approve another dig? That’s what you want to brainwash people for?” Jones yelped.

Phil stopped paying attention. Jones’s ability to stall was nearing its end. Tess was weakening— did that mean Clint would soon, too? Phil glanced up at him. Clint had stood up during the long monologue, and was stock still, staring at Burgoyne. Likely waiting for orders. If only he could get Clint to bend down….

The grip of the students holding him was strong, but not unbreakable. Mind-controlled they might be, superhuman they weren’t. Phil contemplated, wriggled to get himself situated, thn arched back, slamming his wrists and the hands that held them hard into the ground, then yanking free when they reflexively loosened. He kicked out at the same time and twisted upwards— only to be met by all of Clint, coming down hard to pin him again.

Phil took one look at those blank gray eyes, that gnomish face now unnaturally smoothed.

“I’m so sorry Clint,” he said softly. “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

And then, because it seemed important, 

“I love you.”

And then he slammed his forehead upwards in a head-butt.

Clint’s neck snapped back, his eyes rolled up, his fingers spasmed, and he fell off Phil, rolling to the side.

Phil rolled to his feet, just in time to see Magnos twisting free of her captors, her little knife in her hands.

“Oh for heaven’s sake—  _ get them _ !” Burgoyne roared. 

All the students started forward, as one mass.

“Hey!” someone yelled from the doorway, “heads up!” 

Phil looked over just in time to see Bent standing in the doorway. He was holding a beaker full of something brownish and horrible-smelling in one hand, and one of the candles from the cavern wall in another. There was a strip of what looked like litmus paper straggling from the beaker. 

“Come on guys, run!” Bent yelled, then he dipped the candle at the litmus paper, igniting it, and flung the beaker at Miranda Burgoyne.

In mid-air it turned into a fireball, and came down in a wide arc at Burgoyne’s feet.

Even before it fell, Phil was rising, reaching back to grab Clint. 

That was when the blast went off.

For a moment, that was all it was— a percussive blast, launching him through the air and bringing him down near the entrance to the cavern. 

In that moment, he saw that everyone in the cavern had gone down. Burgoyne was struggling to rise, as were Jones and Magnos, Clint and Tess and all the students.

In the next moment, the creaking began, and the sliding. Something hard and small hit his back, followed by a shower of fine grit.

Phil stopped thinking. 

He leapt forward, shoving the students standing in front of him like a snowplow and trying to make it to the door. Jones and Magnos were following him, dragging people, and Bent was backing up fast to give them room.

With a noise like an iceberg calving, slabs of stone began to crumble from the sides of the walls, flowing inwards in a miniature avalanche. And above their heads, a hunk of limestone the size of a banquet table detached itself from the ceiling and fell, surrounded by assorted rubble.

Right.

On top.

Of Miranda Burgoyne.

And Tess.

And.

And.

And Clint.

Phil stood frozen in the doorway, staring back at the rubble. The world had gone silent, except for the ringing in his ears. Someone plucked at his arms— two someones, then three, pulling him back into the safety of the storage room itself.

He realized, vaguely, that there were more people milling about. Magnos had his elbow and was trying to turn him. Cassie had his other. She was sobbing and shaking and that— that meant that the mind control had broken. That she was back to herself. From the corner of his eye, Phil thought he saw Captain Schunk coming up, flanked by a rotund man with a Santa Claus beard, palm-print suspenders, and a horrified expression.

But Phil was still stuck, staring at the ruins of the cavern, the rubble pile inside it, the rising dust cloud. The hand emerging from the base of the pile. He was looking, desperately, hopelessly, for any movement.

“What the fuck is this?” Schunk yelled in his ear. “Moore— answer me.  _ Answer _ me. What the hell just happened?”

Phil shook his head, feeling his lip begin to wobble, and tried to find words for it. 

There were none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for: a taxidermy house of horrors, a fire, mind control, academic infighting, and cave-ins.
> 
> Okay, first off: I know. And in case you need to hear it, there's a happy ending. And I don't play around with tags.
> 
> Next time on Driftless: Clint in the underworld. Phil in despair. It can only go up from here? Next chapter posts September 2 or 9, again depending on how fast life lets me write.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's lost Clint. Clint is... just lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this chapter wouldn't be here, and it wouldn't be half so Pheelsy, without the amazing beta work of LauraKaye. 
> 
> No more major cliffhangers, this chapter, but minor content warnings for claustrophobia and for perceived loss of a loved one. Up ending.

Everything hurt.

Everything was dark.

Everything hurt  _ and _ was dark.

Wasn’t much of a recon, but then Clint  _ had _ just woken up. 

Okay, so third thing: everything hurt and was dark, and Clint had been out for… awhile, probably. His brain didn’t immediately supply him with a  _ previously on _ summary, so he guessed he hadn’t just momentarily fainted.

So. The dark. Couple possibilities: he could be blind, or the lights could be out somewhere with no windows. Figuring he’d try the least-terrifying solution first, Clint squeezed his eyelids, then fluttered them.

Ah.

Everything hurt, and was very dim. That… was still not great, but it sure beat being blind.

From the little he  _ could _ see, plus the dust filtering into his eyes, he was at least partly underneath a large slab of rock. Breathing was adequate, apart from the dust. He wriggled. Everything moved like it ought to, despite the pain. 

So. Bruised and battered, but not broken. 

And not, importantly, trapped.

Well, not trapped  _ much _ .

Mostly trapped, sure, but mostly trapped is partly free. And now that his eyes had fully adjusted he could see a space to his right where the dim was less dim, which suggested an opening, which suggested total freedom was his for the wriggling. Now. Was it safe to be free?

The memories still weren’t lining themselves up for him properly— he knew who he was: Clint Barton, Agent of SHIELD, currently undercover as the spouse of Phil Coul… er, Moore. He knew where he was: the town of Driftless (unless he’d fallen through an inter-dimensional rift or something— which was, sadly, not impossible). And he knew what day it wa… no, he wasn’t sure of that. It was the Day After… something. Fireworks. Phil. Th… oh, no, that wasn’t the memory he needed to have pop up at the moment.

Er. At any rate, none of that helped explain why he was buried under a hunk of limestone— limestone? Ick, yes, it definitely tasted like limestone. Which strongly suggested he’d either been drugged or he’d been hit on the head really hard. And given the stone, he was gonna go with the latter.

Clint gave his head a tentative shake, and promptly regretted it. His temples throbbed with the movement. However, the world only reeled a tiny bit around the edges. Verdict: not fun, but ignorable. Next he glanced down at his hand and gave himself a thumbs up. Only one thumb came up. So concussed he might be— but at least he wasn’t seeing double.

And light sensitivity probably wasn’t going to be an issue in the near future.

All right then. Given that his body was mostly working and he had no idea how stable his little pocket of space was, it was gonna be safer to try and get out.

Clint shuffled over to the opening on his right, where the light was filtering through. It was narrow, formed where the slab above him met something he couldn’t see that had caught it as it fell. The space wasn’t quite big enough for him to get through as it was, but hopefully the rock on top was light enough that he could shift it. Clint braced his hands and knees above him, then heaved upwards. The stone shifted just enough that he could squeeze his way out. Simple— if you ignored all the bruising rapidly making itself known as he shifted heavy rock. 

The light was still dim, and he was in a cavern of some kind, next to a large fall of rock. And he’d been very, very lucky not to have been squashed— the rock that had covered him had come to rest on two other broken pieces of limestone just big enough to form a little tomb.

Not just lucky— damn lucky.

Much luckier than whoever was underneath the next slab over, the one that had crashed on top of a section of rock that jutted out from the wall like a dais. The person’s hand was all that peeked out from underneath the rubble. Blood trickled slowly down the fingers and over a set of silver and carnelian rings.

Burgoyne.

Next to her lay the remnants of the stone head with the snakes. It was split in two, all its snakes fallen from its mouth and its turquoise eyes cracked. Hervey. The name floated into Clint’s head, unattached to any memory. The last time he’d seen that head, in the storage room, it hadn’t had a name. So where the hell had that come from? He began to think he’d had a very  _ interesting _ few hours… days… whatever it’d been. Clint regarded Hervey for a moment, wondering why he was so very relieved its eyes were dim.

Shouts pulled him out of his reverie— they were coming from beyond the pile of rubble against the far wall. Something black and gold twisted through the rubble, koi swimming on a velvet stream. He blinked and it resolved itself into fabric caught in what must have been a rock fall. Curtains, maybe. The shouting was as fuzzy, as hard to focus on, as the fabric. It dimmed against the ever-present ringing in his ear, now loud and obnoxious in the way it only was when he couldn’t hear anything else to drown out the sound. At least one of his hearing aids had gone, then. What a surprise.

Clint sighed, shaking his head and muttering a sub-vocal  _ of course  _ as he turned to survey the rest of the room. 

He wasn’t alone.

“Tess!” he yelped, half-giddy with relief. “Thank god!”

She was standing halfway across the cavern from him, pale, shaky, and covered head-to-toe in yellowish gray dust. It turned the magenta of her hair something closer to puce orange. Her pants leg was torn and she looked like he felt, but she was blessedly whole.

“Clint?” she said— or he thought she said. Her mouth moved, but he could only barely hear her voice. 

“Sorry,” he told her— shouted, maybe, from her wince— “you gotta speak louder.”

She shook her head at him, then darted closer and laid a tentative hand on his arm.

“You all right?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m… fine. Trapped in a pocket, like you. But I— oh. Oh my  _ god _ .”

She’d seen Burgoyne’s hand. Her already-pale face went white, and she dropped down to kneel beside her mentor. Absurdly, she looked for a pulse, trailing her fingers back over Burgoyne’s limp palm when she didn’t find one.

Her head dropped, and Clint thought she was starting to cry. He couldn’t have that, not yet— they needed to let someone know they were alive and unharmed. He shuffled over to comfort her, only to stop short as he saw Hervey’s one eye glaring up at him, accusatory even in death.

He felt his breath stop. The throb in his temple expanded to fill his entire skull.

“Clint?”

He shook his head, and the haze cleared.

When he looked back up at Tess, she was eyeing him warily.

As well she should; he’d just had his entire morning rush back into his head, each memory laid out in excruciating detail. Well— each memory up until whatever had happened after he’d met Burgoyne and Tess and Hervey with the glowing eyes. He tested the memories after that— running, yelling, Phil’s horrified face— and they felt distant. Like he was watching a movie of his own life.

He didn’t think it was a movie he wanted to see.

It’d be so easy to get lost exploring the full horror of what had happened to him. But Clint was still a SHIELD agent, trained in filtering out the merely terrible so he could keep sight of the urgent. Which was—

“You weren’t being controlled,” Clint told Tess, trying to keep his voice even.

Tess’s eyes widened.

“You did this  _ willingly,”  _ he continued, feeling like he wanted to vomit the words up.

Tess looked down at Hervey like he’d provide some assistance, then back up at Clint—

— and then bolted.

He actually froze for a moment, it was so unexpected. Where did she think she was going?

She raced straight for a frozen waterfall of flow stone that obstructed the far wall, grabbing a couple of the still-lit Coleman lanterns from the ledge as she went. Just when he thought she was going to hit rock and bounce back, she disappeared. 

Clint swung back to the rubble-covered wall from which he’d heard the shouts— if that was the entrance, no one was getting through it any time soon. Guess he’d have to do it himself.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered, and ran after Tess.

 

####

Phil almost wished he’d let Dr. Jones rip the radio out of the squad car. It was spitting out panic from all channels— jargon, code, and cursing in equal measure. He contemplated reaching back to shut it down, but his arms had stopped responding to his brain. 

He slumped on the outside edge of the car’s passenger seat and stared at his disobedient hands, which were dangling between his open thighs and refusing to do anything useful. Hands, knees, forearms, feet, all covered in sickly yellow dust, in scrapes and bruises and blood. The edges of the foil shock blanket Phyl had draped around him swung at the edges of his vision. 

As he sat there, an island in the middle of frantic movement, the first fat raindrops of the oncoming storm pattered at his feet.

It felt like hours since he’d tried to dig Clint out of the rubble. He’d ignored the remaining students in favor of heaving rocks off the fallen remains of the cave’s ceiling, getting no closer to the people beneath the pile but bloodying his hands spectacularly. Finally, he’d been yanked backwards by Jones and Magnos. They’d yelled as they dragged him out. He’d tried to jerk himself free and scramble back, but it was a losing battle.

He crossed the threshold just before a last slab of rock, as large as a banquet table, had crashed down behind him, sealing off the secret entrance. 

After that, Phil had only impressions of how he’d gotten out of the building: Jones’s hands under his arms, Schunk yelling, Magnos yelling back at her, stairs, then the outdoors and a firework display’s worth of blue and red lights and milling emergency personnel. Jones had left him here, in the front seat of the car they’d come in, then disappeared. Phyl had come by a few minutes later, strewing shock blankets left and right over the students they’d rescued from the cavern, and given him a shoulder squeeze to go with his blanket.

But she hadn’t stayed either— there simply weren’t enough emergency personnel to go around, and Phil wasn’t first priority. Even Schunk knew that. And anyway, where would he go? Everything he cared about in the world was underneath that building, buried under a half-ton of rock.

To the extent that he could hope at all, he hoped it had been quick. Maybe Clint had still been under Burgyone’s influence. Maybe he hadn’t seen it coming, never had even a millisecond of panic. With what little faith he could scrape together out of the dregs of his agnosticism, Phil prayed that had been how it happened.

It was all he could do now. It was all he’d been able to do for the last few minutes— or hours, or centuries, or eternity. In the moments between the pain, he was enraged at himself. He was a  _ Senior Agent of SHIELD.  _ There was a crisis unfolding all around him! He should be out there with them, getting things done. Directing people to do… do something. Informing Jasper that… that Magnos had… that  _ Clint _ had…. Taking charge of… of… of… of anything, really. 

Doing his job. 

But the falling rock seemed to have crushed his will as well as his husband. Fake _ —  _ his  _ fake _ husband. 

For the first time in his career— perhaps for the first time in his adult life— Phil couldn’t think of a next thing to do. The only way he even knew that his body had kept breathing was that if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t be in such excruciating pain. Wasn’t there supposed to be shock? A blankness borne out of survival that was supposed to set in when a loved one died, at least for the first few moments before reality came crashing down? 

There was, he knew there was— he’d experienced it before.

Why the hell couldn’t he at least have that cold comfort this time? Instead he was frozen in place, and the only coherent thought in his brain was that he had been right right. He’d been right. Clint was gone and he’d been right— 

— there was nothing after.

He was all alone.

Alone— and alive in a world that was going to expect him to carry on.

A world that didn’t care that he’d lost the love of his life— that would never even know he’d  _ found _ the love of his life.

Or that he’d been loved in return.

Clint had taken that secret to the grave with him.

And Phil was left, a chief mourner with no authority— even from Clint himself— to be one.

Phil watched, distantly, as his hands began to tremble.

Maybe he  _ was _ in shock. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to faint soon and put himself out of everyone’s misery, at least for a moment.

“Phil?”

It took Phil longer than it ought to have to register the movement coming towards him— and it wasn’t coming fast. Cassie’d clearly injured her leg sometime in the melee or ensuing evacuation, and she was limping along. He raised his head to look at her, but couldn’t find a word to say.

She was hunched into her own foil blanket, her hair tangled, dust turning into spackle in her locks as the rain dampened it. And her face was a ruin. But she was moving, which was more than could be said for him, and her eyes were filled with sympathy and… something else?

“Phil?” she asked again, tears choking her voice. She collapsed awkwardly to the ground in front of him, her leg stuck out to the side, and leaned forward to look up into his face. “Phil, I’m so… I’m so sorry. I just… I can’t. I’m sorry, Phil, I… Clint… I… I’m so sorry I ever listened to Tess. I shouldn’t’ve. I shouldn’t… I listened to Tess and I texted Clint and told him to come because Milo was scaring me but it wasn’t Milo… I mean it  _ was,  _ he  _ was _ scaring me, but it wasn’t Milo it was Tess who told me to get Clint and I did, and I… and I… I got him  _ killed _ . I got him  _ killed, and I’m sorry!” _

She was wailing by the end of it, tears streaming down her face.

Phil momentarily  _ hated _ her for it, for each tear she shed for Clint when he couldn’t manage to squeeze out even a single one.

But he couldn’t say that, so instead he let his lizard-brain take over. Dredging up the old instinctive reactions passed down in the genes from hominids long dead, he patted her head and murmured  _ there, there. _

“Ohhhh,” Cassie sobbed. “And now you’re being  _ nice _ to me and I don’t deserve it. And I should be… I should be trying to tell you it’s okay or… or patting  _ your _ head or… or bringing you a hotdish or whatever people do for someone who’s lost their husband.”

_ For someone who’s lost their husband _ . 

It was even worse when she said it than when he’d thought it— the words hit with shattering force, breaking him apart right down to his bones.

“He wasn’t my husband,” Phil snapped, as much at himself as at her. 

She had to take it back, he had to make her take it back before he fell apart completely; his hands were already shaking, the rest of him was going to follow soon if this didn’t stop. Phil clutched one hand with another, trying to hold himself together.

Cassie reared back and blinked at him, shocked and tear-stained.

“Oh… okay? You mean… like,legally? Like… like for paperwork and… and funerals and stuff the Canadian wedding doesn’t count? Do… do you have, um… um… what’s that thing that lets you plan a funeral anyway? That thing. Is… is it going to be a problem with… with Clint’s family or something?”

_ Clint’s family _ . Clint’s dead parents, Clint’s brother who… who Phil had no idea what had happened to. And SHIELD. 

Phil felt his breath come short. He had no idea what was going to happen next, because Cassie was right— he didn’t get a say in it. 

He’d lived with Clint, loved Clint, and yet someone else was going to come in and take away his things, take away his body, and they didn’t even have to tell Phil why or what they were doing with it. He’d have nothing left to remember Clint by, nothing except some shattered LPs and— ow. What was that?

Phil looked down, realizing he’d gone from wringing his hands to twisting his wedding ring up and down his finger, and he’d tugged it too hard. He stared at the ring a moment. 

He wouldn’t get to keep  _ that _ either, it was SHIELD property, not his.

God, what was he doing? He didn’t  _ want _ a say in Clint’s memorial! If anyone asked him right now— if god forbid he had to make decisions about the deposition of Clint’s body— he wouldn’t have the first clue what Clint had wanted. He’d watched his mother make the plans for his father, seen how careful she was over each hymn, the readings, the way his plot in the cemetery had faced out towards the lake. Her last act of caring, of making sure everyone knew who he belonged to.

That wasn’t Phil’s place— he’d spent so much time trying to chase Clint away. There was someone else out there, some faceless other— the brother, or Clint’s ex-wife, or… someone who’d loved him and been allowed into his life.

(Not like Phil, not when practically Clint’s last words to him had been  _ I don’t want a relationship with you _ .)

Phil gave a vicious twist, and the ring popped off his finger at last. It looked small in his hand. So easy to lose.

Truth be told, he didn’t even know what Clint would have wanted for a memorial. What kind of music, what kind of service— if any. Maybe a wake. Who his friends were. Who was on his life insurance. If he even  _ had _ life insurance. They’d been coworkers, and then they’d been fake husbands. Maybe… maybe if Phil hadn’t been such a coward, so twisted up by his own past, they might have been more.

But they’d never had that chance.

And Phil didn’t deserve Cassie’s sympathy, or understanding, or guilt. He had no rights, not to her sympathy and not even to the pain he was feeling. No right to be so ruined over this.

If he couldn’t get his broken heart to understand that, maybe he could at least get Cassie to.

Phil clutched the ring in his palm and hissed at her:

“It wasn’t like that. He  _ wasn’t my husband _ .”

“I… don’t understand,” Cassie said, sounding almost mad about it, like he was repudiating Clint in death. She looked like he’d slapped her in the face, and Phil felt like he had, too. 

Of course; she didn’t know about SHIELD. Well— it didn’t matter now, did it? They couldn’t keep the cover after this, especially not when Jones and Benton Lewis both knew and he was half-certain Magnos was using it to keep Schunk off his back. Phil took a deep breath.

“I mean, we weren’t married, we weren’t even— Cassie, Clint was a  _ SHIELD agent. _ I am. We were searching for Elena Magnos, we weren’t… it wasn’t… we were  _ never married _ . Don’t waste your sympathy on me.”

His voice had wobbled there far more than he’d wanted it to, and when he took a breath at the end of his outburst, it was outrageously shuddery.

“Fine,” she sniffed, glaring at him. “You weren’t married. But you  _ did _ love him.”

Phil’s heart stopped.

“I—”

“And he loved you,” she insisted. “I saw you. I  _ saw you _ .”

“I—” Phil shook his head, trying to jostle free words of some kind, to deny it, to make it stop, to… something. Had he felt sorry for himself that no one would know?

This was worse. 

This was so much worse.

Her sympathy was going to destroy him. His hands were already shaking, he already felt like he was going to vomit his heart up, and each kind word from her threatened to ruin what little self-control he had left. He could not be  _ allowed _ to mourn; he might never stop.

She was still glaring at him, tears being washed away by rain, her entire body covered in yellowish streaks as the storm began in earnest— and she was the most terrible thing he’d ever seen. She frightened him to death.

And he was Agent Phillip Coulson of the S trategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. He’d faced down a thousand situations far worse than one girl who felt sorry for him— it should have been  _ child’s play _ to find the words to make her stop, to make her leave him alone. Phil swallowed hard and straightened up. He could do this. 

“Go away,” he croaked.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Go  _ away _ ,” he repeated, like it would help. “Go away and… and… and… stop feeling bad for me.”

Her mouth opened, like she was trying to find the words to argue with him.

“ _ Go _ ,” he snarled, and her mouth snapped shut.

“Fine!” she said.

She went.

The rain fell harder, thunder rumbling and nearly drowning out the sounds of sirens and shouting. Phil slumped back down, staring at the ring still in his hand. For lack of another place to keep it, he put it back on his finger. 

Fuck it. Fuck everything. That hadn’t helped at all.

People passed in a wide arc around him: running for shelter, moving victims to the ambulances, passing out rain gear. All of them ignored Phil as he sat in the abandoned squad car and let the storm hide his sobs.

  
  


####

Clint felt like he’d been running for hours, maybe days, weeks— he’d passed out of ordinary time somewhere after he’d slipped through the crack in the cavern wall, chasing Tess. It’d been done without thought, but it hadn’t been uncalculated. Yes, okay: he had a throbbing headache, his ears had mostly gone, he was bruised and battered, and to be honest he was maybe a little concussed as well.

But there was no help coming, not in time to catch Tess. And with Burgoyne dead, Tess was the only one who knew her secrets— if, in fact, Tess did.

And he remembered, just before he’d stared into Hervey’s glowing eyes and the world had gone all blue and nightmarish, that Burgoyne had called him  _ Agent Barton _ .

So he’d had no choice but to follow.

She’d had a lead on him, of course. He’d only just caught a glimpse of her pink hair as she’d rounded a corner by the time he’d come through the crack in the wall. The hallway he’d emerged into was narrow and lined with limestone blocks, vaulted like maybe it’d once been a sewer or a hidden passage. But her footprints had been fresh in the dirt, laid over top of a few others. Given how still the air was, he imagined those prints could have been laid down all in a hurry, like his eclipsing hers, or one at a time over more than a century.

He didn’t have time to examine the sole prints for clues— all he could do was follow the pattern of her feet, where the light of the lantern revealed it. Thank god for LEDs.

Also, Clint realized shortly thereafter when a dim clang reverberated down the corridor, thank heavens his hearing aid had broken. Yeah sure, the high electric whine of his tinnitus made for an annoying companion, but with no hearing aid he hadn’t been distracted trying to find the source of the sound, to sort out echo from truth. Instead he’d kept following the footsteps, knowing he was gaining on her, every stride of his encompassing two of hers.

Of course, she could buy time— as he’d realized when those prints had led him straight into a locked metal door.

That was what the clang must have been.

The lock was old enough it used a skeleton key, but Clint, well— Clint had a past more than eccentric enough to have included picking those locks. And he hadn’t remembered to clean out his pockets the previous night. He’d been… a little distracted. He’d pulled out his lockpicks and gone to work, feeling vaguely like a misplaced Alice down a very weird rabbit hole— and after a pretty non-standard rabbit, too.

The door had opened out into the steam tunnels, just about where he’d remembered seeing it when he’d been stuck in there with Jones. They hadn’t even come that far.

Unlike the sewer, the steam tunnel didn’t hold footprints— but he didn’t need it to. He remembered which way led back to the Anthropology hall. That would be full of people now, or else full of rubble, depending on how well Forkenbrock had been built. If rubble, it did Tess no good. If people, well— she might be able to pass as one of the injured for a minute or two, but if Cassie was there and alive, Cassie’d know. She’d have seen what Clint had, just before she’d met Hervey herself. And Cassie’d tell Phil, and even before Clint got there Tess would be caught. If.  _ If _ . But those were ifs Tess couldn’t risk, and so she wouldn’t have turned that way. 

So Clint, too, turned away, letting his feet carry him as fast as he was able even while some small part of his heart looked backwards, aching. Did Phil know he was alive? 

What would… what would Phil  _ do _ if he thought Clint wasn’t?

No— no time for that. Clint would catch Tess, he’d get them both out— the tunnels had to lead to some building or another after all, or else the river— and then Phil would know and it’d all be okay. Just a little short while. And maybe Phil would have already seen that Clint wasn’t under the rubble and he’d be okay. Okay… ish. Just normally worried about Clint, not despairing.

Assuming that Phil would still be worried about Clint at all, after nearly being strangled by him in the cavern and no— nope. Phil Coulson of  _ all _ people would understand about mind control. Phil would never blame Clint.

_ Clint _ blamed Clint, because Clint knew just how stupid he’d been, walking into that cavern, but that was neither here nor there. And neither was Clint, so he needed to stop thinking about Phil and concentrate on Tess before he missed the— ah, ah, there.

Another door clanging shut just in his face, when he was on the verge of grabbing her dirty, torn sleeve. Another lock to pick.

Another— Clint looked around. He was in a kind of underground… garage? Bunker? It must be for facilities maintenance; ghost lights flickered above him, the emergency kind left on to provide a modicum of light until the big overhead fluorescents warmed up.  Two-story garage doors lined one side of the space, and littler doors studded the other walls. In the dim light, he could see the shadows and outlines of heavy equipment. The entire floor was filled with parked backhoes and little sidewalk plows, bigger plows, pickups, disassembled scaffolding, and golf carts of every shape and size.

She could be hiding in any one of them, Clint realized. He sighed, and set to marching down the rows of equipment, shining his lantern in the cab. 

“Come on, Tess,” he called, though he already suspected it was useless, “just come out. We can make this easy, or hard. If you come out, if you cooperate— hey!”

The beam of the headlights, sudden in the gloom, nearly blinded him, and he leapt to the side just in time to avoid the vehicle that came peeling out and tried to run him down.

Clint collected himself and his lantern in time to see the tail lights of a little golf cart, with an even littler tailgate, turn the corner aisle. Where the hell did she think she was  _ going _ ? Ah— ah, there in the distance, a garage door was starting to creak upwards. He had to get there— fast. But how?

This was the point at which Clint would later say he’d left the waking world behind and entered some kind of other space. Because in the waking world, one did not find oneself driving a sidewalk-sized cart with two enormous snow sweepers on the front through oversized steam tunnels in hot pursuit of a golf cart that shed shovels and rakes as it jostled.

The garage door had started to lower again just before he and his little vehicle swept through. The garage door led into a broad concrete tunnel, illuminated by only the headlights of the golf cart and Clint’s lantern. He held that aloft with one hand while he steered with the other. They drove for an ageless time— the little snow sweeper, even at top speed, could do no more than keep up with the golf cart, keep it just in sight. Up ramps, and down ramps, around corners, passing branching tunnels that narrowed, locked doors, mislaid equipment.

He hardly knew where he expected the tunnels to lead at this point; they were already far more extensive than he’d expected. Out of one of those doors in the cliff, down by the river? To some far part of campus? To Oz?

He hadn’t expected— and he should really stop expecting things, it never worked out— the tunnel to end in blackness, but it did. Also, it was barricaded by wooden beams that that golf cart crashed right through.

Clint followed, though bumping over the debris slowed his snow sweeper down.

Which turned out to be a good thing, because it meant he was paying attention when Tess  bailed out of her golf cart, and rolled onto what looked to be soft sand or something that— Clint bailed out too, and looked up only when he came to his feet.

They were in another cavern, this one yellower than the last, the walls smooth like they’d been carved. Sandstone. And there was light— daylight!— an entrance, to the right, where the golf cart was headed. Why hadn’t Tess stayed? She’d have been— 

And then the golf cart disappeared, followed quickly by the snow sweeper, right over the edge of a hidden ledge. And Clint finally understood what Tess was trying to do.

Get away, yes. But she wasn’t just trying to outrun him; she was quite willing to kill him to make her getaway good.

She was also halfway across the cavern, and Clint picked up his lantern and ran after her.

 

####

Phil didn’t know how long he sat there in the pouring rain before Captain Schunk stomped up to him. She’d retrieved a slicker from somewhere and she was dry-ish, though that didn’t seem to be improving her temper. It  _ really _ didn’t improve her temper when she realized that the rain had cascaded down Phil’s foil-clad shoulders and was currently ruining the passenger seat of her squad car. 

She must have escaped from Elena Magnos, who’d been trying her best to keep Schunk distracted and away from Phil while the aftermath of the cave-in played out. Phil sighed, and wondered if she’d just go away and leave him to his misery if he closed his eyes and pretended she didn’t exist.

Probably not.

She probably also wouldn’t be that sympathetic if he just had a nervous breakdown or fainted— he’d just end up in the hospital under watch. Which would be a bad thing. He was distantly certain of that, even if he couldn’t pinpoint  _ why _ just at the moment.

Okay. 

He did close his eyes, just briefly, hoping to summon Agent Coulson to his rescue.

When he opened them again, she was looming over him, and his brain completely failed to rise to the challenge. Phil opened his mouth, then closed it again, several times, hoping words would magically fall out of them. After the third try, he got:

“Hi?”

Schunk drew herself up, her glare lowering as the thunderstorm.

“ _ Mr. Moore _ ,” she spat at him, “if that is your real name. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t shove you in the back seat of that car and take you right to holding.”

It was, oddly, the “Mr. Moore” that did it. Phil felt his lips begin to quirk up, entirely without his control, in that classic little Coulson half-smirk he’d perfected on lonely evenings back at the Academy at SHIELD. There was nothing  _ behind _ it, no anger or smugness or any emotion at all. But that was all right, that was just the calculating agent-brain that took over in difficult ops. Apparently it went on reacting even after death, just muscle memory.

But that was fine, that’d see him through this and he could collapse again later.

“Because I’m an Agent of SHIELD, Captain Schunk. And this is an ongoing operation. And arresting me would compromise it, which wouldn’t end well for either of us.”

“Huh,” Schunk responded, snorting. “That’s what Magnos— if it  _ is _ her— says. You know what it sounds like to me? It sounds exactly like someone who’s supposed to be dead  _ would _ say. Sounds like something  _ you’d _ say, too. See if you can get me to buy it long enough for you to skedaddle. D’you think I’m that stupid?  _ Look _ at you.”

She waved her hand from his sneaker-clad soggy feet to his foil-covered shoulders, the clear implication being that no Agent of SHIELD would be caught dead looking this bedraggled. Phil refrained from pointing out that he was currently sitting inside her squad car, and could have used it to skedaddle at any time. He was done with this whole stupid charade— it was time to get Jasper involved.

“You don’t have to take my word for it,” he told her. “I can give you a number to call and they’ll confirm everything.”

And once she had, he could tell Jasper that their little op wasn’t so little anymore, and that he needed backup… and possibly a retrieval squad. The thought of telling Jasper that Clint was dead was chilling— he wasn’t sure if even Agent Coulson could manage that without breaking down. Still, he had no choice but to do it. There wasn’t any other way to get—

“Who the hell are they?” Schunk growled, turning away from him. Phil stood up to follow her gaze.

A new cluster of emergency personnel had just shown up. Well— Phil assumed they were emergency personnel. They were mostly in kevlar, over a motley assortment of business casual. They all had holstered guns, too, and most of them had rain gear (though clearly personal, not agency-issued, since no agency was likely to issue gear that was pink with butterflies). None of them, Phil noted, had visible badges or agency markings. Huh.

“Hello,” said the person in the pink butterfly rain gear, as Schunk moved to cut them off. “We’re with the Driftless Coordinated Emergency Response team. We’ve been ordered to take over control at this site, to free your personnel to finish fire response.”

It was smoothly done— almost too smoothly. It sounded like a script. Phil found himself tensing. Schunk clearly agreed with him. She puffed right up, turning her glare on Pink Butterfly Jacket.

“Whoever the hell you are, you’re not from the DICC. First of all, I know all the local units and I’ve never met any of  _ you _ . Second of all it’s the Driftless Incident Coordinated Command team, and you haven’t even got the damn name right. Thirdly you don’t even know the damned protoco— who the hell are  _ you _ ?”

Her voice cracked as she spun to meet the newcomer who was shouldering her way through the crowd of anonymous emergency response personnel. 

“Senior Agent Sharon Carter. I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division,” the newcomer said, flipping a badge out in Schunk’s face.

It was  _ not _ Carter, of course, though she wore her suit and button-down with the same ease Carter did. But this agent was shorter, with deep red hair. Phil wondered if Carter knew that the Black Widow had borrowed her identity. 

Schunk spluttered, but Natasha Romanoff rolled right over her, pleasant but firm.

“I understand you’re the Incident Commander here. I’m the SHIELD liaison officer assigned to this incident. Unfortunately, SHIELD’s identified what we call an 0-8-4 on this site, which raises this to a Type 2 incident. I think you’re only Type 3 certified, yes? Thankfully Senior Agent Nguyen here, who heads the Kansas City branch office, is Type 2 certified and Classified Threat Response trained. If you wait a moment, you’ll have confirmation on that from Homeland Security and from the Driftless— ah, there you go.”

She waited politely for Schunk to answer her suddenly-ringing cell phone, then turned to Phil.

“Neither of you checked the weather this morning,” she said gently. Her face stayed neutral, professional, but something in her tone let Phil know that Romanoff had already assessed the scene— fire, deluge, cave-in and all— and realized at least part of the disaster.

He drew himself up to debrief, seeing as Butterfly Jacket— Nguyen, apparently— had got Schunk in hand. From the sound of it, she was answering Schunk’s protocol crack by tossing off NIMS jargon every third word. Schunk was starting to wilt under the barrage. Romanoff drew him off a little distance from them, her hand steady on his arm. 

“Talk to me,” Romanoff said gently once they were out of earshot of the others.

Phil opened his mouth, and then all of a sudden Agent Coulson was gone, just when he was most needed. Phil was left alone with Clint’s friend, all knobby-kneed and bedraggled and bereft. And he couldn’t remember protocol to save his life. Hell, he was barely managing to breathe straight, and the tremor had come back to his hands. He grabbed at his ring and twisted it, trying to calm his nerves. 

“I… I’m sorry,” he said, hoping the way he wanted to whimper wasn’t too obvious. “I’m so sorry. Clint was in there.”

“In where? There?” Natasha pointed to Forkenbrock, where recovery teams with hard hats were starting to filter in. “What happened?”

The question was sharp, insistent—  _ tell me the worst now _ . Phil felt himself answering nearly against his will. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see her reaction when she understood.

“Cave-in,” he rasped. “I. He…” There was no way to avoid saying it, even though Phil knew it was the final nail in the coffin.  _ Clint’s _ coffin. “He was caught in it. Clint was. Agent Barton is. He’s d….”

Phil had to stop; the words were choking him. He swallowed hard, clamped down on his ring, and tried again.

“He’s dead.”

It came out louder than he’d expected, but so bitter it burned on the way up. There was a gasp from somewhere behind him, and he looked up— directly in contravention of protocol, most of the Kansas City team had followed Romanoff, and they’d been listening to his pathetic failure to debrief. They looked stricken.

Natasha Romanoff did not. Her face, which had been polite, had frozen as expressionless as a china doll. 

“I see.” She nodded once, assimilating that, as if trying to make sure she had the translation right. “I. I see.”

She glanced to the side, and Phil thought he heard something that might have been a sniffle, quickly covered. And then, as he watched, she pulled on an agent-face, as smooth and guileless as Agent Coulson’s best. 

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, and if he’d had a heart left to break, he thought it would have broken again. Outright rage would have been so much easier to bear than this. 

I had better inform Agent Nguyen— and then contact Agent Sitwell. I’ll let you know when I have, Agent Coulson.”

She turned on her heel and left, just like an Agent of SHIELD should do. But Phil could tell there was pain in the set of her shoulders, and it just broke his heart all over again. She’d clearly decided that he had to be handled, as if he was a dubious asset. And given that he’d just confessed to letting her friend— the friend she’d been willing to skip out of SHIELD for at the first opportunity— get killed, he found he couldn’t disagree. She was so new to SHIELD, so tentatively held— if this broke her, if she couldn’t stay at a SHIELD that didn’t have Clint— how was he not to blame for her loss, as well as Clint’s? 

Failure after failure, and nothing to do but stew in it. 

“Um.”

The voice was so quiet it was barely more than a ghost of itself. Phil turned.

The other SHIELD agents were still watching him, their eyes wide beneath their slickers. Who the hell did they get to staff the Kansas City branch, Phil wondered— then decided that wasn’t fair. This would be a lot for  _ anyone _ to take in. And SHIELD didn’t send mediocre agents to backwater locations like Kansas City. It sent them to the CIA. They’d do.

Assuming they weren’t moles.

Oh god. There was a fun thought. Dr. Burgoyne might be dead, but whoever she’d partnered with in SHIELD was still out there. By causing a cave-in and being forced to contact SHIELD, had he also provided an opportunity for Magnos’s enemies to reach her? That would be ironic, all right. Not only had he failed Clint, he might have failed Magnos too. 

Well, if he hadn’t already, he was going to soon, if he didn’t get his brain working long enough to assess the newcomers. Phil ran his hands over his face, scraping enough of himself together to address the agent in front of him.

“Yes, Agent—” he paused to wait for a name.

“Day, sir,” the agent, who was dressed in a bright yellow slicker, told him. “Agent Day. I’m— we’re— junior agents, sir. Graduated this spring. Um, we were on a training rotation when Agent Nguyen and Agent Carter requisitioned us. Were just wondering… if we were supposed to be doing something right now.” 

Oh god, Phil thought. Oh dear god. 

“Well,” he sighed, more to himself than to them, “at least you’re not likely to be moles.”

He closed his eyes one last time and took a deep breath. Grief would have to wait; he couldn’t let junior agents hang.  He couldn’t let Elena Magnos down— he couldn’t let  _ Clint _ down. 

Phil let Agent Coulson flow back into his face, papering over the grief that kept threatening to overwhelm him, and thought of what to tell the agents in front of him. His future might have died with Clint, but Clint was still depending on him to bring the mission home. Luckily, he’d been Agent Coulson long enough he barely had to think about it— that was the whole point of the agent-face. He could let Coulson go off on autopilot while Phil was inside, desperately searching for ways to save a hopeless situation. He could do it again.

Of course, the autopilot trick only worked so long. But then, Phil didn’t really  _ need _ his heart to be Agent Coulson. In fact, it might be easier not to have it. His mother had made it for years going through the motions, so could he. And the one person who might have noticed was dead, anyway. Phil might be dead inside, but nobody  _ needed _ Phil. They needed Agent Coulson. And if that meant that he learned how to go through the motions indefinitely, like some law-enforcement zombie in search of bad guys instead of brains, well….

He was just going to have to learn to be a zombie.

 

####

Clint’s pursuit of Tess only got stranger the longer it went on. Hervey and the mind-control should have been enough to secure it a place in SHIELD legend. By now he wasn’t sure he could even tell SHIELD the whole story, for fear they’d bench him with symptoms of severe psychiatric issues following a traumatic brain injury.

Tess ran on and on, and Clint followed her, as the sandstone cavern lead through a narrow passageway of more brick and into yet another cavern. This one had no obvious entrance, but people had gotten in somehow. It was filled with candles in every nook and cranny— all of them burnt out. There were upside-down pentagrams and 666s lining the walls, which could have meant satanists, but given that Black Sabbath’s logo and Slayer’s also made an appearance, it probably just meant death metal enthusiasts. Or found object artists— rusted bike wheels and bits of rusted wrought iron railing decorated one ledge, and a rusted wheelbarrow had been half-buried, handles up, in sand in the center of the room. 

Tess hadn’t even slowed down, leaping the wheelbarrow then disappearing into a shadow next to a Mayhem logo spray-painted in red. Clint followed.

The next cavern had been empty except for a broken bong, several shattered glass pipes, and a tennis shoe.

The following one was lined on every wall with shelves and shelves of cheeses. Clint had figured that one had to have a reachable exit, but Tess had ignored it. Instead, she’d climbed a far wall, found a crack, and shimmied through.

Clint had shimmied, too.

They’d come out in a limestone… “cavern” was too expansive a word. “Tunnel” implied human intent. A passage, perhaps. He’d had to pick his way through, following the bob of her lantern as it went over fallen slabs of rock, around small pools where water dripped in from cracks in the ceiling. 

He’d seen, just in time, the plank laid out over a dark space, a drop of some kind. Seen it, but not made it in time. Tess had gotten to the other side, turned, and pushed the plank into the crevasse. Clint watched her face as she did it, and it was pale, frightened, but determined. He didn’t bother to call out.

Unfortunately for her, he was a SHIELD agent, and an acrobat, and a real son of a bitch when someone tried to kill him. And the roof of the passageway was narrow but high. Clint had judged his distance, gotten a running start, then leapt— caroming off one side of the wall so that his foot hit the opposite, pushing off, and popping right down on the other side of the crevasse. One foot slipped, right on the edge, but he’d leaned his weight forward and was able to stick his landing.

He was going to pay dearly for it later, when the massive adrenaline crash he was courting hit, but for now all he felt was smug. See if Agent Blake could land  _ that _ maneuver. Hah. He’d probably split the crotch of his dress pants.

Tess was already out of sight when he got up, but it was okay— he had her footprints in the gravel again, and no fear they’d wash away before he followed them.

She tried that trick and others several times, trying to lead him down a blind passage and doubling back, crawling through a space nearly— but not quite— too small for his shoulders. He prayed to everything he didn’t really believe in that she knew what she was doing, or else neither of them were likely to see daylight again. He had no idea where they were or how to get out, and the tracker in his ring wouldn’t work this far under ground.

At least she did seem to be an accomplished spelunker. She led him through bigger caverns, filled with stalactites, stalagmites, pillars, and through passages nearly too small to shimmy through. They passed sections where flowing water had shaped limestone into rippling curtains or pipe organs. Twice, they ran on wood planking through halls where dim underground pools, turquoise in the lantern light, lurked just below their pathway. 

He’d followed his homicidal rabbit into Wonderland after all. How many people knew the extent of the caverns beneath the city? Were they even still under the city, or would he come out to find himself in China? Or on the moon?

And then, she shimmied through a crack, and Clint shimmied after her, and realized that the floor beneath him was suddenly concrete, and there were guard rails along the walls. And electrical boxes at junctions and lights— all off, of course. Tess ran. And Clint ran. And then a light switched on and there was some kind of sound, talking— they rounded a corner, and nearly ran into a tour group, being led by a tan-shirted and very startled ranger.

Tess barreled right through the group, pausing only to grab a stroller and send it— and its very startled toddler occupant— straight at Clint. Clint vaulted the stroller and took off after her, leaving yelling behind him.

She must be getting desperate, Clint thought. She must be running out of stamina. She wasn’t in any better shape than he was, after all, and she wasn’t a trained agent. Probably. But if she was willing to hurt innocent people— kids even!— and if there were, against all odds, innocent people down here with them, he couldn’t trust to stamina. He had to take her out, even if it meant risking further injury to her, and him uncertain how to get them out. Now, while they were in a clearly-charted cavern.

He picked up a rock, judged his distance, and flung it.

It struck her lantern, not her, but only because she’d turned at the last minute, facing him. Her lantern went out— and then she came at Clint, tackling him. His own lantern rolled away and he heard a smash.

All was dark.

Pitch unrelenting black.

He’d been in a sensory deprivation chamber once, for reasons he really did not appreciate recalling. This was… worse.

He flailed, trying to keep her from strangling him, his tinnitus covering her breathing and the scuffle of their bodies. She didn’t follow up on her attack— her weight disappeared from on top of him and she fled. He thought. Maybe she was just next to him. Maybe she was a thousand miles away. Maybe if he crawled till he found a hand rail he could follow it somewhere, feel where it led, creep his way back to civilization and light and—

There was a flicker of light, just ahead of him, and then gone. But in that split second he’d seen Tess’s shadow, something in her hand, a metal box….

Clint fell forwards, crawling, searching, search— ah. There. The box. He fumbled for it, ran his fingers over the sides, found the latch, felt the door fall open. There were… tubes? Inside it? Sleek metal, held in place by clamps, with— oh. With  _ switches. _

Clint grabbed one, flicked the switch, and the flashlight came to light in his hands. A whole box of them! He stuffed another in the back waistband of his pants and kept moving forward.

####

Despite her rough start and young age, Agent Nguyen had quickly proved her Type 2 was legit. She’d left little for Romanoff— er, Carter— to do once she’d finished with Schunk, and the fire chief, and the Mayor of Driftless (who had arrived on the scene after it apparently started trending on yamblr.) Phil had herded junior agents until Nguyen had space for them. She’d seeded them among the various coordinating agencies, and as regular SHIELD personnel began to arrive from Kansas City, Phil had been free to get an update from Romanoff.

As it turned out, training junior agents had been Romanoff’s excuse for staying in the area. It had been Jasper’s suggestion— or Romanoff had let Jasper thnk it was; whichever. Sharon Carter had been supposed to do it, but had been pulled for an undercover assignment at the last minute, so using her name kept Romanoff off the radar back at the Triskellion and provided verisimilitude for Sharon. Which made it more likely it had been Jasper’s idea— he was twisty like that. Phil’d filled Romanoff in on the melodrama in the cavern under the Forkenbrock, on the mind control, on Elena Magnos, on the mole… and on Clint. She’d taken it all in stride, then excused herself to give Jasper an update.

“Do I tell him about the mole?” she’d asked.

Phil bit his lip and thought about it.

“No,” he decided. “He can’t do a damn thing about it right now, and anything he tried to do would just be noticed. This operation is as far from under the radar as it’s possible to get by now. We just keep an eye on Magnos— and each other. We’ll brief the Director when we get a secure line.”

“Hmm,” Romanoff had said, looking down as she considered this. “Do you think it could be him?”

The suggestion made Phil’s gut churn nearly as badly as the frijoles had in El Segundo.

“I really don’t,” he started, then stopped and shook his head. Spies who let personal friendships get in the way were dead spies. “But I’m too paranoid to bet anyone’s life on it— though only by a little bit. I think Jasper’s safe, but it’s probably best to use an abundance of caution. He’d yell at me if he found out I didn’t.”

That had, apparently, been the right answer. Romanoff’s brow had cleared and she’d given him a little half-approving  _ you passed _ smile, then gone off to call Jasper.

Truth was, old Phil, non-zombie Phil, might have kicked up harder at the thought  _ Jasper _ could be a mole. New, dead-inside Agent Coulson didn’t have the energy. And it was a good thing he saved it— moment later, Agent Day came running to tell Phil that the cave-in had been stabilized and search and rescue was going in.

Huh. More like search and recovery. 

Phil was running out of time before he had to confront Clint’s body. 

Before he saw rescuers lift up the rubble, uncover Clint’s battered face. Or else before someone brought him a covered stretcher, lifted back the sheet, asked him if he recognized….

Phil stuffed his fist in his mouth and bit down to keep from whimpering. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t  _ fair _ — he’d had so little time with Clint, to be asked to do something as terribly intimate as identify his body. He wasn’t sure even zombie Coulson could withstand that without shattering.

On the other hand… could he stand to  _ not _ see Clint’s body? 

Phil’s knees gave out and he sat down, hard, on a nearby bench.

The thought of leaving Clint to be exposed by strangers was nauseating. How could he leave Romanoff to face Clint’s dead body alone, when Clint would never have wanted her to be in that position? Maybe zombie Coulson would survive betraying Clint’s memory like that, but Phil would never look himself in the face again.

He flashed back, then, to his dream. Clint’s pale dead body laid out in an open coffin. Alexander Pierce leading him by the hand.

_ “It’s too bad you have to go, too.” _

Phil felt cold all over. Cold as the grave.

Hah. Cold as frozen chutney. 

The storm had passed, leaving cold wind behind it, and Phil shivered. He’d lost the foil blanket somewhere and been working in his soggy gym clothes. 

“Hey, Phil?”

It was Cassie, standing behind him on the path. She had a crutch under one arm, and in her other was carrying a folded paper Menards bag. 

“Did you save big money?” he asked, unthinkingly, and then winced. In his head, he’d heard Clint’s voice echoing it.

Cassie looked down at the bag, and her lip began to wobble.

“I’m sorry,” Phil rasped, swallowing down the sudden tears that threatened to swamp him. 

She nodded, and held the bag out to him. Phil took it automatically, willing his hands not to shake, and looked inside.

His shoes were on top, the good brown ones with the custom-molded orthotics, suitable for an agent on his feet (or on the run) or a grad student with questionable knees. There were protein bars tucked into each shoe. And underneath… clothing? He looked up at her.

“You needed dry clothes,” she told him, tilting her chin up defiantly. “That… maybe didn’t make you look like a homeless basketball player. And anyway, you left your front door open, so I figured I better make sure everything inside was safe.”

Right. Because Schunk had arrested him before he could do anything about the ruined state of his apartment, and she hadn’t had time to go back and search it, what with the library fire and the cave-in. 

“Thank you,” Phil said, feeling his arms squish the bag, and encounter an unexpected weight. “I— what all did you bring me?”

If anything, Cassie looked even more defiant.

“I found the footlocker,” she said, as if daring him to say something. “I thought, if you really  _ are _ a SHIELD agent, you’d want… well, you’d probably feel better if you had….”

“Didn’t we… we lock that,” Phil said, bemused. Cassie shrugged, and looked away.

“Key was in Clint’s backpack. I… I took it with me when we evacuated. I thought. I didn’t know what I thought, I mean, I just hoped he’d. Um. Need it again. Which….” She trailed off, ending on a huge sigh.

_ Which _ . Yeah, Phil couldn’t think what to say about it, either. And she wasn’t wrong— he felt better knowing he had dry clothes and a firearm. Not that there was anyone left to shoot at.

“And the protein bars?”

“Oh come on, Phil, have you eaten at all? Are you planning to eat at all?”

“Don’t really feel like it,” he muttered, though his stomach chose the moment to disagree audibly on the point. 

“You’ve gotta eat,” Cassie told him. “I know it sucks, and I know I feel like puking if I just think about food right now, so I bet you’re even worse, but you gotta eat.”

“Cassie,” Phil started, then stopped as his voice came out oddly forlorn. He clutched the bag tighter and fought for words. “Cassie, why are you trying to take care of me?”

He’d tried to say it gently, but her face crumpled up and she turned away, swiping her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffling once. 

“’Cause Clint can’t. And he. He wouldn’t have wanted you to look like… like a lost puppy, okay? He’d be so mad if he found out we weren’t taking care of his husband. Okay?”

“I’m not—”  _ a lost puppy _ , Phil meant to say.  _ I’m an Agent of SHIELD. I’m a competent adult, and you’re still half-kid. _ But instead, what came out was “— his husband. I wish I—.” 

And there he stopped, uncertain how he would have ended the sentence. Not that it mattered; Cassie clearly wasn’t having any of it.

“Definitions,” she scoffed. “Paperwork.”

“We went over this,” Phil told her, wondering why it mattered so much to him to set her straight, and why she was so desperate to ignore him.

“Damnit Phil, you can be sad but don’t be stupid. He  _ loved you,”  _ she said, and stamped her foot. “He doodled your name in his notebook and drew hearts made of kale around it. You can’t convince me that wasn’t real.  _ You _ don’t think that wasn’t real. He loved you, and he wouldn’t have wanted…  _ this.” _

She said the last word with disgust, gesturing at his sodden self. Phil looked down, and felt all the fight go out of him. Clint, who’d deferred to Phil’s need for the side of the bed by the door, who’d brought him cold cheese curds and ambushed him with massages, who’d tried quinoa just for him, would have hated seeing him like this. Clint who had, indeed, improbably, loved him in all his forgetful, dorkish glory. 

“Well,” he sighed, “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

As it turned out, dry pants and a concealed weapon made a world of difference, and Agent Coulson strode out of a nearby building a few minutes later feeling ready and able to help Agents Nguyen and Romanoff take charge. Armored, tucked away, and ready to face… whatever he needed to face. 

“I see that nice Cassie girl found you,” Phyl said, meeting him. She held out a travel mug it looked like she’d liberated from the bookstore, and Phil took it gratefully. “Your Agent Carter says they’ve just started on the rock pile. Shouldn’t be long now. Do you want me to go down there with you?”

As if there were no question he was going to go back into that hellhole and wait for them to bring up the body of his husband… his fake husband… Clint. 

Which there wasn’t, really. He was going to go down there and wait, even though he had no idea what would happen when he saw Clint’s body, as soon as it became really, incontrovertibly, 100% real. Maybe his heart  _ would _ break and he’d have a heart attack. That would be a relief. 

But no matter what was coming, he had to face it. For someone who’d been in his life so little time, Clint had turned it so topsy-turvy that Phil no longer knew how to orient himself in his absence. The future that stretched in front of him had been erased of every landmark and road. It was just a flat, featureless plane, impossible to navigate.

Had it been only a month ago he’d told Jasper that his dissertation was going to be the thing that gave his life meaning when he got out of the field? He’d been wrong. Clint would’ve. Even without being in a relationship, just loving Clint would’ve been enough.

Only, of course, Clint was dead. Phil might as well stop delaying the inevitable, and go down to face living out all the days without Clint that were going to come. 

As they descended the front stairs into the archeology hall, that Clint had wandered down his first full day on campus, Phil saw recovery workers coming up, bearing away tarps filled with rubble. 

As they came into the lab itself, he heard someone yell. They’d found something.

Phil and Phyl slipped into the storage room, moving down the side aisle to wait next to Romanoff. Her face was still, and when Phil offered her some of his coffee she took it with steady hands. Only her eyes gave her away.

The body that came out was draped in a sheet, but the hand that flopped out from the side of the stretcher was covered in silver and carnelian rings. And blood.

Burgoyne.

Clint would be next. Or else Tess would be.

Time passed, and more tarps filled with rubble passed with it. The searchers worked largely in silence, coming out singly or in pairs to suck down water before they filtered back in.

After a while, one of them came out and wandered over to Phil and Romanoff. He shook his head and looked up at them, seeming a bit bewildered.

“There were three in there, you said?” he asked, as if it was in question.

“Yes. Miranda Burgoyne, Tess Coyle and… and Clint,” Phil told him. “I saw them right as the ceiling fell.”

“Welp, there aren’t now.”

Phil reared back, his brain blanking.

“That. What? There… there have to be.”

“Aren’t. Man, we’ve searched most all of that rock pile. Not enough left to hide a body, not even a squashed one.”

Romanoff made a little, cut-off sound of protest at that, and the man grimaced.

“Sorry. True though. We can bring in the cadaver dogs but— dunno what they’re gonna nose for. Wherever those bodies went, they’re not here.”

“But that. But. But I  _ saw _ them,” Phil said helplessly. He’d seen Burgoyne’s eyes widen as the ceiling fell, he’d seen Clint turning to him with that terrible blank face, seen Tess drop the stone head…. He’d  _ seen Clint die _ . He’d felt his world end. How had. It was impossible it hadn’t happened, his heart had broken too definitively for it to just get taken back.

The man just shrugged and the three of them stood there blinking at each other, each searching for a logical place for the argument to go next.

An excitement at the doorway made them all turn, just as Agent Day raced down the stairs.

“Sir! Ma’am! Sir!  _ Sir _ !” he said, then pulled up short in front of them, panting.

“Talk to me, Agent,” Phil told him, running on automatic.

“Yes. Sir. We have Agent Sitwell on the line upstairs. He says. He says someone activated Agent Barton’s tracker. The one in his wedding ring? It’s  _ on.  _ And it’s active… five miles to the north or so, out of town. He wants you and Agent Carter to—”

Phil didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence; he was already flying out the door and on his way up into the light.

Clint might be alive.

 

####

Just when Clint was starting to wonder if they’d started tunneling towards the center of the earth, Tess broke through a narrow metal door into a hall lined with concrete and limestone block. Clint had lost a little time trying to get his hips unstuck from the narrow crevice they’d edged through just previously, so she was barely in sight when he emerged behind her.

The difference in this hall was noticeable immediately: cage-covered lights studded the walls at intervals. Water seeped from the seams and turned the floor slick. This wasn’t a tourist cave, it was a working installation. Clint thought he could maybe hear the thrum of machinery— which meant that to Tess, it must be loud enough to cover Clint’s footsteps pounding behind her. He narrowed his eyes and considered whether he had enough energy for a burst of speed. 

Another turn, a locked steel door— Tess was just in front of him now, more than close enough to throw something at if Clint had anything left to throw besides his shoes and flashlight, both of which he figured he might need again. She was tugging hard on the door handle— and then she looked up at the ceiling. And froze. Abruptly, she dropped the handle and fled, instead, up the circular stairs to her right. Clint glanced in the direction she had as he followed her, and spotted a security camera.

Curious. It was the first time in their chase that he’d seen her act uncertain of surroundings. Before that, she’d been spookily sure of herself, even in pitch blackness. But he didn’t have time to wonder why this was different; he needed to keep her in view, and duck if she— 

_ Fuck _ .

— If she flung anything down the staircase at him.

Like her flashlight.

Clint ducked it, and the light caromed off a railing then rolled down the stairs. Good thing she didn’t have his aim. Also, intriguing. Wherever she was headed, it must have lighting.

She had to be tiring, near the end of her endurance. If he could just keep her from shaking him for a little while longer. Or killing hi—

Clint dodged a falling wrench.

And a hammer.

And an empty toolbox, which didn’t even come  _ close _ to hitting him, come  _ on _ Tess. 

Then he was around the last corner and up, raising his hands defensively in case she was lying in wait.

She wasn’t.

She was halfway across the low concrete bunker of a room, flinging open a door and running out of it. 

Clint ran after her, skidding at the threshold as he was nearly blinded by what was probably not  _ that _ much golden sunlight. It was just too much for his eyes after so long in the dark. 

He shaded his eyes and searched out the dark spot that was Tess.

She’d paused as well, hands flung up in front of her face, and for a brief moment he saw her silhouette against pinwheels of light and a sky turning the pinks and lilacs of sunset.  _ Sunset _ ? Between the cavern under Forkenbrock and the subterranean chase, they’d somehow lost an entire day. And they’d emerged somewhere distinctly not Driftless. The dull hum of machinery had disappeared, but he could hear water roaring nearby and branches snapped at him as he stumbled forward.

Then his eyes adjusted, and he could tell it was all over but the shouting. Whatever magic Tess’d been using that made her run true up ‘till now, she’d lost it. Or else she’d finally come to a place she didn’t know— which seemed likely, given how the security cameras had thrown her. For whatever reason, she’d finally made a mistake, and Clint was going to make her pay.

They were on top of a broad stone wall lined with guard rails. The rushing sound came from a mill race next to them. 

Tess had run the wrong direction in her half-blind state. She was up ahead of him on the end of the wall, turning at bay. If she’d run the other direction, tried to scramble up the bluff that was behind him, she might have escaped. Instead, the mill race ran below her on one side, arcing towards a tunnel that funneled it underground into, Clint presumed, into a power plant. On the other side of her stood the dam. 

It curved across the limestone gorge in an arc, bending back against the brown river. Except for Tess and her magenta hair, and the steel guard rails, Clint would’ve thought they’d been displaced in time as well as space. The dam looked like something out of a sepia tone postcard or a secret relic of a lost civilization. Water overtopped it, spurted out of nooks and crannies in the ubiquitous limestone block that formed it. If it hadn’t been for the thrum of machinery, the obviously populated state of the tunnel they’d just come through, Clint would have assumed the dam had been abandoned to turn into a waterfall. 

But abandoned or not, it meant the end of the road for Tess.

She clearly knew it— she’d backed right up against the rail and was looking frantically about her, searching for some way down. Clint slowed, not wanting to spook her. The last thing he wanted was for her to try something stupid, slip, and die. Not now, now so near the end.

“Give it up, Tess,” he bellowed at her as soon as he was close enough to be heard over the roaring water. “It’s over. Come back with me. It’ll look a lot better than if you try to fight.”

“You and… and what army, Clint?” she yelled— or he thought she yelled. He could only hear so many words, but she was faced towards him and there was still enough light to read her lips by. “The one you weren’t actually in? Miranda showed me your file. D’you think I’m gonna walk all the way back to Driftless with you and let SHIELD lock me up? Look at you! I’m surprised you made it this far!”

“Don’t think I haven’t done more with a worse headache,” Clint responded, inching forward just a little. “C’mon, Tess, you were only an accomplice. There’s a chance—”

“Oh  _ please _ ,” she cut him off. “Like I’d believe for a second Doc Magnos didn’t tell you I’m the one who pushed her off that cliff. You’re not cutting a deal with me.”

“You— what?” Clint paused to whack one ear— fuck the cave-in and the damn the dam, it had almost sounded like Tess had said— “Magnos didn’t tell anyone anything. If she’s alive, it’s news to me.” 

Tess rolled her eyes, and okay, okay, if he could just keep her arguing, no matter what it was about, Clint could maybe get to her before she did something stupid.

“Bet it isn’t news to your  _ partner _ though.  _ God _ , I should have known! No  _ real _ husbands are as… as… as sickening as you two. All those big eyes and humping in the lab and the doodling with kale. Come  _ on _ .”

Well, that was just uncalled-for. Phil had been a  _ great _ fake husband. Almost too good. (Of course, it turned out he wasn’t faking as much as Clint’d thought. But that only proved Clint’s point.)

“You know,” Clint said, continuing his campaign to distract her while he inched into grabbing distance, “for a woman who pretended to be everyone’s friend while plotting to throw them off cliffs and shit, you sure are mad about a little straightforward undercover work. Did you know you were leading Ellen to her death, too? Or did Burgoyne tell you it was all an act?”

He was hoping for act, Clint realized as he said it. Some indication he hadn’t been 180 degrees-mistaken in her character.

“No she told me she wanted to bring back a mind-controlling alien. I just didn’t believe it’d work,” Tess sighed, and some of the fight went out of her. “And I was right! It didn’t work! Just made Ellen go all ‘yes, master’ and stuff, and Miranda thought she could work with that. Only she couldn’t, not at first.”

With that, Tess’s shoulders slumped and she looked down, so Clint had to struggle to catch the next part. Something about taking time to get it under control, about Ellen’s brain going to mush. Then she sniffled and looked back up, eyes wide, realizing that she hadn’t been paying attention to Clint.

He’d taken advantage of it to come nearly within grabbing distance of her, and he saw her scramble at the railing, as if she could back straight through it.

“So you killed Ellen,” he prompted, trying to lead her back to the story and away from thoughts of escape.

“No, no— no, we couldn’t. Hudson killed her. Miranda… Miranda had Hudson kill her. She said she had to know if the mind control would work on something that serious.”

Clint’s stomach dropped. That was even worse than he or Phil had thought.

“But you’re the one that dumped the bodies, right? You used the tunnels and caves. Clever.”

“Yeah well, I’m in the local Urban Explorers group,” Tess shrugged, sounding a little proud. “C’mon Barton, what’re you doing? Playing for time? Waiting for backup?”

“No one here but you and me, Tess,” Clint said. “Still time for you to come quietly and cooperate.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Tess growled, and shot a glance down at the water before adjusting her grip. She was getting desperate, and Clint still wasn’t sure he could keep her from going over if he lunged. “This whole thing is stupid. It was never supposed to end this way. We just… Miranda just didn’t want anyone nosing in on the find, that was  _ all _ . So I made sure they didn’t. Just one push, that was all. I… I didn’t mean for  _ this _ to happen!”

“Then you could have said something, at any time, Tess. You had choices. You weren’t under mind-control like Ellen and me. What the hell was so important to  _ you _ about old Hervey? Since you didn’t believe in aliens?”

Tess looked at him like he was stupid.

“Tenure, duh,” she said. “What’d you think? Miranda promised me an associate professor spot, just as soon as she got it past the dean. And Hervey would’ve made sure of that.”

“You helped murder people for  _ tenure _ ?” Clint wasn’t sure what his voice was doing, but it was probably hilarious.

“Do you know what an adjunct professor makes?” Tess asked him, looking affronted at the question. “Fat lot of nothing, that’s what. I know PhDs on food stamps. Lots of them. They’d all stab their aunties for a shot at a tenure-track position, if they could even find one. Yeah, I helped murder people for tenure. Others have done worse.”

So he’d been right all along, Clint thought despairingly. It  _ had _ been academic politics. An alien device designed to help someone rule the world— or bring back a lost god to do it. All those murders and attempted murders. The mind control. That was all just the method, but Tess’s motive… was a promotion.

On the whole, Clint thought he preferred good old honest weapons smuggling. He thought of Ellen Gideon, floating in the river, her face pale and eyes awash, and was suddenly tired to death of the whole thing. Tess was probably going to jump, and he probably couldn’t stop her. 

“You have to come back, Tess,” he said, judging his distance. He was nearly close enough now. Just a little more distraction…. “You can’t outlast me. Sure I’ve been concussed and had a cave collapse on me, but so have you. And I’m  _ used _ to this shit.”

“And I’m an archaeologist” Tess sniffed, straightening up and glaring at him, “and I’m used to it too.” There was a glint in her eyes that could have been from the sunset, or from tears. “You want me?  _ Come and get me _ .”

And, just as Clint leapt, Tess hurtled herself over the railing.

She slithered down the abutment, never quite losing her footing and tumbling, and landed on top of the dam.

“Tess!” Clint yelled as he picked himself up and started after her. 

He was halfway over the railing before he realized what a stupid idea it was. There was no way to catch her. And she wouldn’t make it— or even if she did, she wouldn’t be going anywhere fast. SHIELD could find her later. 

Even as he had that thought, Clint’s foot hit the abutment and he went sliding, sliding, sliding, jarring loose flakes of wet rock and grit. He twisted desperately, trying to avoid the dam. There was a narrow ledge just to his right, where a fish ladder wended its way down the side of the dam— if he could just— 

He caught it with one foot, and teetered on the edge.

For a moment, he felt like he was back on the tightrope, still a kid with too few brains and too much hurt and a no idea when to quit, and he balanced himself— 

— and then he overbalanced and fell backwards onto the fish ladder.

His last view of Tess was of her out on the dam, silhouetted against the dying light. She was up to her waist in rushing water, her hands flailing wildly. Then she fell, and so did he— tumbling over and over down the ramp, the steps hitting each and every bruise on his body as he scrabbled desperately at the walls, trying to save himself.

He hit the bottom on his back, driving the wind out of him with a gusty bellow.

And then his limbs hit, starfishing him out in the shallow water, and the last of his strength left him. Clint took stock, and decided that as long as he wasn’t in imminent danger of drowning, he was just going to lay here for a minute.

Or two.

Or maybe three.

And wait to see what happened next.

####

Phil stood back by the parking lot, clutching Clint’s ring in his hand, and watched the clot of rescue workers buzzing around the bottom of the dam. The sun was sinking out of sight, so they’d added flashlights to their labor. It turned them into a mass of shadow and occasional sparks of light, like disproportionate fireflies. Every so often one of them would dart up across the public plaza next to the shallow river, then back down. A SAR dog and its handler threaded their way carefully along the bank.

The tracker in Clint’s ring had led them here. Schunk, still grumpy but cooperative at last, had relayed a witness report from the local sheriff: two people, one probably male, one female with a magenta hat or hair, in the middle of a verbal argument. The witness had been driving by when they’d called, and didn’t stop to watch. By the time the deputy had gotten to the scene, some fifteen minutes later, there’d been nothing.

Phil’d gotten the call from Schunk while they were en route, and it had frozen him. He’d had time to come to terms with the idea that Clint had not died in the cave in— but that didn’t mean he was still alive. He could easily have fallen to his death on the dam, or been killed. 

He had spent the rest of the drive twisting his own ring around his finger and trying to figure out if it was safe to come to life again behind the Agent Coulson mask. Did he have a future or not? Did he dare let his heart start beating again, when Schrodinger’s Clint was still unobserved, still dead and alive at once? 

Hell, did it  _ matter _ if Clint were alive? 

Well— obviously it mattered. Clint in the world was infinitely better than Clint out of it. And at least it would ease Phil’s guilt towards Romanoff. But the chill of knowing Clint was dead had gone all the way through to his bones— it was going to take him a long time to thaw. He wasn’t sure if he even  _ could,  _ or if his heart had gone frostbitten and gangrenous. 

And now, standing in the parking lot and waiting hopelessly, Phil realized that it he’d been right to keep his heart shut down. It was far from certain that Clint was alive. They’d found his ring caught on one of the steps near the top of the fish ladder; it must have come off either during a fight or a fall. Either way, it was no more good to them, Clint was nowhere to be found, and there was an awful lot of riverbed he could be lying in, drowned.

He had to stop thinking about that. He had to let SAR do their work, hoping nightfall wouldn’t force them to call it off.

Sudden shouts from the shore; the dog had found something.

Phil’s breath stopped, and the hand holding the ring spasmed, clutching tight.

Romanoff was there next to him in an instant, her shoulder touching his. He felt her stiffen just like he was. Agent-pose.

People clustered, flashlights flickered, and then the mass parted.

A stretcher made its way through the crowd, started coming back towards them. 

Phil felt like the world had stopped spinning, like he’d come unmoored.

Then the stretcher passed beneath the sickly glow of a streetlight, and Phil spotted it.

Magenta hair.

Not Clint.

_ Not Clint _ , thank everything.

“It’s not him,” Phil croaked, wincing a little at the sound of his voice but mostly proud he’d managed anything at all.

Romanoff let out a relieved huff, and he felt the tension seep out of her.

“All right then,” she said, “Next.” 

She walked off, leaving Phil alone again with Clint’s ring and his thoughts. Those were chiefly: if this body wasn’t Clint, where the hell  _ was _ he?

Phil wasn’t kept in suspense for long— one of the searchers on the other side of the river stood up and yelled.

A nearby walkie-talkie crackled to life. 

They’d spotted brush broken like something big had gone through— lucky, given the near dark. Impossible to tell where it led. They needed the dog.

Phil had asked whether they needed anything of Clint’s earlier, when the search started. He’d been told no— the dog was trained to find any human in the area, living or dead. The dog proved itself now, starting off through the brush with a mighty leap, dragging its handler along after. Phil took off with them, running abreast of the SAR assistant, both their flashlights playing heavily in the dark wood. They called Clint’s name intermittently. It was likely the dog would find him first— if he was there to be found— but it didn’t hurt to try.

“Someone crawled through here, I think,” the assistant said. “We’d have seen it immediately, in daylight.  _ Clint! _ ”

“ _ Clint! _ ” Phil echoed, then, “Will the paramedics be able to get through here?”

If needed. Oh, how he hoped they’d be needed.

The assistant glanced behind them.

“The way we’re all trampling brush? Oh yeah. You bet.”

“Okay,” Phil said, nodding hard. “Okay.”

He called Clint’s name again.

The handler called the dog to heel for a moment, then bent down and let it off the lead.

“Too much risk of tangling,” the assistant said sagely. Phil nodded, barely paying attention now. His voice was going hoarse with calling Clint’s name, his hands were shaking again, and he felt like he was at the edge of the world, uncertain whether he was going to fall off or find out it was round.

The dog went off again on command, darting out of sight, and the humans followed more slowly.

“She was breathing,” the handler said, when Phil came up even with him. 

It took Phil a moment to figure out who he was referring to, and then he was surprised at how little he cared.

“I dunno how,” the handler added after a moment, “but she was. So. Odds could be worse. For your guy, I mean.  _ Clint! _ ”

Phil nodded. He’d nodded a lot, these last few hours, as a replacement for words. It was the only way to hide how language kept getting beyond him, ever since they’d found empty space under the rubble where Clint should be. He called again.

“What I mean is, the night is pretty warm and—” the handler broke off, listening to something.

There it was again: a bark. Bright, satisfied.  _ Found him! Found him! Over here! _

Phil didn’t think— he ran.

Brush slapped at his arms and chest. The trees thinned out, giving way to a clearing— and to the shadow of a dog, standing eagerly over the shadow of a prone man.

_ Clint. _ Even in the dim twilight, with only his toes illuminated by the flashlight, Phil knew him. Phil thought he’d know him anywhere, even on a pitch black night. Even after centuries apart. And as the beam passed over him, Clint’s feet twitched.

Alive.

Oh,  _ alive _ .

Phil’s pulse thundered in his ears as his heart burst back to life, so painful he felt like it would burst his ribcage. But he couldn’t let it. He couldn’t have a heart attack  _ now _ , not when Clint needed him.

Phil’s head hadn’t noticeably cleared with the certainty that Clint was, in fact, still with him. For once in his life, no plans flitted through his brain, no contingencies began to form. Only two things were clear to him as he fell to his knees next to Clint. One was that he could get past Clint’s presumed death after all. He already was, longing and worry and fondness racing down every nerve and out to the tips of his fingers as he reached for Clint. The other, well— he’d already known it, deep down in his bones. He’d known it for weeks now. He could wait a little longer before he had to do more than acknowledge its truth to himself.

####

Someone was calling his name. 

No. Not someone—  _ Phil _ .

Clint struggled with his body, and ultimately forced his eyes open.

It was dusk, or else he was seeing everything through a twilight haze. The crowns of trees were silhouetted against a deep purple sky, shading into night. The grass under him was wet, and the air still smelled like the release after a rain. Something tickled his cheek. Insects or vegetation— it was hard to tell.

A cricket creaked from somewhere just nearby, close enough to register over the now-constant tinnitus. Clint tried to turn his head towards it.

Ow. No. Bad idea.

He blinked back up at the treeline, and tried to remember how he’d gotten here.

And where “here” was.

The last thing he remembered with any certainty was falling down a fish ladder, but the ache in his knees and palms made it likely he’d crawled to his current location. It couldn’t be that far away from the dam, then.

Indeed, if he focused hard, he could just barely make out the sound of rushing water— or maybe that was just his ears again. Damn ears. (Heh.)

A star winked into view above him— no. Venus? 

Or else a satellite. It blinked like a satellite. And, like a satellite, it was falling, falling, falling down to flicker around his nose.

Up close, it grew little black wings and a long abdomen.

Firefly.

Clint watched, entranced, as it darted around him, zipping in front of his eyes then flickering up before bouncing back down. Once, twice, as if testing to see if he was safe to land on. Finally, it disappeared off into the night like a spark going up a chimney. 

He hadn’t seen a firefly for years. Couldn’t help but think it was a good sign. A home sign.

Nearly as good a sign as Phil, calling his name again.

Phil would love to see the firefly.

He had to tell Phil to look out for it.

Clint raised his voice to try, but his throat ached so bad that it came out as a whisper. At least, he thought it did— it was too soft for him to hear himself. Still, he’d tried. And if he could hear Phil, what with all the buzzing going on in his ears, Phil couldn’t be that far away. He could tell him soon enough.

As he lay there, drifting slowly back off and waiting for another firefly, should one decide to show, Clint thought he spotted a change in the periphery of his vision. Movement, maybe.

And then, all of a sudden, there was a big, friendly, furry face in his, panting with delight.

The face grinned at him, before giving a sharp bark. The dog attached to it turned to look for something, quivering in all its limbs, its light-furred tail thwapping Clint on the head.

It was more comforting that Clint would have expected it to be.

Voices followed the bark, just on the edge of Clint’s hearing, faint enough they made him wonder if he could have actually heard Phil call at all, or if he’d just imagined. It. Oh, he hoped he hadn’t just imagined it. He’d only kept himself awake so he could see Phil’s face.

The voices came closer, went from mission-tense to urgent. Clint ignored them all, because the furry dog blond butt was retreating, making way for someone leaning down.

And oh, there. There was Phil’s face, his dear face, gazing down at Clint like he was something precious and just-discovered. Searching. His eyes met Clint’s.

“Firefly, Phil,” Clint tried to rasp at him.

“He’s conscious!” Phil cried to the other voices, though his gaze never wavered.

Even in the gloom, Clint could tell there’d been sadness on that face, so recently that the tracks of it still pulled down the corners of Phil’s mouth. 

“Sad?” Clint asked.

Phil bit his lip.

“You frightened me Clint,” he replied in a wobbly voice that Clint had to strain to catch. “We didn’t think we’d find you alive.”

Ah. Well. Given that Clint was 90 percent certain he’d had a cave fall on him sometime during the day— unless he’d dreamed it while unconscious— he figured that was fair enough. And since his muscles ached like someone’d tried to detach them and every bone felt bruised, he wasn’t sure he wanted to argue the point hard anyway.

“Sorry,” he said instead.

“No need,” Phil told him, still so very, very solemn. 

It didn’t seem like there was no need to Clint; Phil was clearly hurt. Apologies were required. But Phil kept going before Clint could say so, his voice a little steadier now, a little louder, pitched so Clint could catch it even with his current shitty, shitty hearing. He must be bellowing a bit.

“You were just doing your job,” Phil told him. “Exactly like you always do, and it’s… what makes you Agent Barton. Don’t apologize for that. No.  _ I’m _ sorry.”

Clint wondered if that would make more sense if his brain didn’t currently feel like it was trying to dribble out his ear.

“F’r wha?” he asked.

“For—” Phil stopped, seemed to reconsider his words, then sighed. “I’m sorry for forgetting to trust you, I think. Fundamentally. Look, Clint, it doesn’t matter.”

“Does.”

Inarticulate as his protest was, Phil nodded like it Clint had made perfect sense.

“You’re right. It does. But it’ll keep, I’ll tell you later. Right now the paramedics are on their way. We have to… to get you ready to be moved. Does, um, does your neck hurt?”

Did his  _ neck _ hurt? 

Like Clint would be laying on the damp grass like a lump when Phil looked so broken if he didn’t—

“All hurts,” he said. “Everywhere.”

“Okay. Don’t move; they’ll bring a backboard and neck braces. You’ll be… it’ll be—” his voice broke, and he choked a moment before managing “— fine. You’ll be fine.”

Clint knew that tone of voice. He’d only heard it once before from Phil, the night he’d talked about his mother, but he recognized it.

“Cryin’?” he asked.

“Little bit,” Phil confessed, then reached out a hand to stroke Clint’s cheek. His touch was simultaneously the best thing Clint had ever felt, and the worst. It burned, lighting up bruises he hadn’t known he had until now. Still, the pain was worth feeling the fondness in Phil’s fingers.

“Sorry,” Clint said again.

“Don’t be,” Phil choked. “You of all people, Clint, don’t ever be sorry.”

This didn’t seem right to Clint, but he was fuzzing out again and couldn’t make out how to tell Phil that, how to erase the sad from his eyes. So he settled for saying:

“Okay. Trust you.” And then he had a great idea what would cheer Phil up. It had certainly helped him. “Phil?”

“Yes?”

“Saw firefly.”

Phil seemed more bemused than cheered, but it was a step in the right direction.

“That’s great Clint,” he said fondly.

So Clint went with the logical follow-up:

“Love you.”

“I—”

Shit. He’d done it wrong. Phil wasn’t calming down at all.

“Love you,” Clint repeated more urgently, trying to make it better. “Phil. Always have.”

He waited anxiously to see if that would fix Phil. 

“Oh.” Phil sniffled a little, and his big palm trembled on Clint’s cheek. “Oh Clint. I love you, too.”

For a minute, Clint thought that was it, and then, nearly too soft to hear with his aids out and the ringing in his ears, Phil said:

“Always will.”

And then the other voices returned, growing rapidly louder, and Phil made room for the paramedics.

He didn’t go far, though. He was there, hovering in the background, as they examined Clint, transferred him to the backboard, packed him ‘round with stabilizers, and carried him to the ambulance. The stars were starting to grow thicker in the sky, but Phil’s face kept returning to blot them out, and his eyes were always turned on Clint, like he was in a cave himself and Clint was his flashlight.

Clint found that by focusing on those eyes, he could block out the pain. And when he closed his own, he still felt Phil’s sad, fond gaze accompanying him into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Clint recovers from nearly dying, Phil recovers from Clint nearly dying, they both have decisions to make-- and hopefully they remember about that mole. Chapter posts October 21. Ish.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding Clint doesn't mean Phil's worries are over. Clint wakes up to find that a lot has changed-- and a lot more might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for hospital scenes and sedation.
> 
> Thanks, thanks, and extra thanks to the lovely LauraKaye, whose beta as always focused on making me squeeze every last drop of Pheels from these two. 
> 
> This chapter split on me (I know, I know-- what else is new) and I'm not sure yet if it means a revised final chapter count. I guess we'll see.

Over the years, Phil’d had cause to be thankful for Jasper’s insane commitment to verisimilitude more than once— from the horse trailer in El Segundo, to the carefully-packed  hákarl covering their illicit cheese shipment on the boat to Murmansk, to the lube bottle in the drawer of his and Clint’s coffee table. But he’d never blessed Jasper quite so desperately as on his ride to Driftless Regional Hospital. 

Cassie’d come in for some quiet, fervent thanks as well. She’d gone back to his apartment during the search for Clint and pulled the health care directives and powers of attorney that Jasper’d had so carefully forged. Since Agent Nguyen had redacted Clint and Phil’s SHIELD agent status and real names from the incident briefings, as far as the paramedics knew it was Clint Ford and his husband, Phillip Moore, they had taken to the hospital.  And Phillip Moore had every right to stay with his husband and decide his fate. ( _ In triplicate _ , Phil had emphasized, waving the papers in the face of a recalcitrant hospital administrator.)

Over the last several hours, Phillip Moore had made a  _ lot  _ of decisions. It was exhausting, but at least it was better than making decisions about Clint’s funeral. Hell, it wasn’t that much different than being Clint’s commanding officer in the field. In fact, they were still technically  _ on _ a live op, which made the whole thing even more muddled. Because he didn’t feel like an ops commander, he felt like a husband.

A terrified, helpless, husband no less. More than once he’d wanted to shake Clint awake and tell him this hadn’t been part of the deal and Clint had to make his own damn decisions. Of course, if Clint had been awake, he would have agreed. 

But Clint wasn’t awake, and there was no other practical option. Even if Phil’d somehow magically known where to find Clint’s brother, he had no idea if Clint would’ve wanted him there. Phil’d shared a lot more with Clint about his family than Clint had shared with him. Which hurt a little, as much as Phil told himself it shouldn’t— yes, Phil’d trusted Clint with  _ his _ story, but that didn’t obligate Clint back. He supposed he just wished he’d been the kind of person Clint  _ could _ trust.

Well— whether or not he had Clint’s trust, Phil was the only person around. It was up to him and his faux medical directive to somehow make decisions both Clint and SHIELD would want. And made them he had, hoping Clint wouldn’t hate him for it later. It had taken hours— and countless tests and tubes and scanners and specialists—  for the doctors to determine the extent of Clint’s injuries, stabilize him, and develop a treatment plan. 

Ultimately, the verdict had come back: Clint was mostly battered rather than broken. He was dehydrated (ironically) and had probably torn or strained all sorts of muscles and ligaments, but nothing critical. The most immediate concern was the extent of his traumatic brain injury. Because he’d been conscious when Phil found him, the damage was probably mild or moderate. Which sounded good, except that secondary swelling had set in. 

That, the doctors said, was the biggest danger now. It was why they’d sedated him. They needed his brain to rest. Apart from that, Clint was bandaged, stuck full of IVs for nutrients and drugs, and catheterized. (Phil’d never been in the audience for that particular procedure before, and decided he didn’t really want to be again.)  The doctors kept reminding Phil they might have to intubate Clint later, if his breathing became an issue, but that it would be pretty normal.

Phil didn’t think he could stand another tube attached to Clint without crying. Every time he took his eyes off Clint for more than a minute he had been afraid he’d turn around to find Clint had died on him. 

So he stayed. The whole time, waiting impotently in free corners or outside operating room doors. He’d felt self-conscious about it until he’d realized the doctors didn’t care. That they turned to him, found him, reassured him with a practiced air. To them, Phil must have been no different than hundreds of other people they’d seen hovering over their loved ones, trying to keep them alive by sheer willpower and panic.

Eventually, they’d prodded their last, and transferred Clint to the ICU. Phil’d gone with, and slumped gratefully into a recliner in Clint’s room, staring at his unconscious fake spouse and relaxing for the first time since they’d left for the Fourth of July party in what seemed like the last epoch. 

He was grateful for the recliner— and the couch, and that the nurses knew where the extra blankets were. And the recent renovation that had added all those things. If he’d had to sit in a hard plastic chair in a shared ward, or gotten kicked out for the night, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. How did spouses—  _ real _ spouses— manage it? 

Maybe… maybe he should tell the Director… when they got back… about the recliners. He wouldn’t mind a recliner in SHIELD’s ICU rooms. Not that anyone would ever sit in Phil’s…. Phil jerked back awake, to the sound of a voice in the hall, and cursed.

He’d started to drift off a couple times since he’d sat down. Each time, he jerked back awake from horrible half-dreams that he was sitting next to, not Clint, but a skeleton with Hervey’s grinning head. Hervey had a breathing tube perched precariously over the snakes pouring out of its mouth.

At least this wake-up had been skeleton-free.

Phil ran his hands through his hair and groaned. He needed a nap— he wasn’t going to be any good to Clint if he was too exhausted to think straight. It should be all right to sleep, now: Clint had a dedicated nurse, and the monitors would let him know if Clint took a bad turn. He wouldn’t slip away while Phil was sacked out, Phil wouldn’t wake up to find him dead.

He knew all this intellectually, but it didn’t make closing his eyes any easier. Maybe if he held Clint’s hand it would help his unconscious mind realize Clint was still alive, and safe. Phil inched the recliner as close as he dared to Clint’s bed, then maneuvered his hand beneath Clint’s, moving slowly to avoid disturbing the IVs. The familiar warmth of Clint’s palm went straight to Phil’s heart, squeezing it tight. Phil swallowed hard to keep from crying out. He pushed back the sudden, sharp desire to see Clint’s eyes open, feel the heat of his smile, and concentrated on breathing. He moved his thumb up to Clint’s wrist, settling as he found the slow, steady beat of his pulse. 

With Clint’s hand in his, the longing subsided, and sleep came creeping up to take its place. Phil let his eyes slip shut, sliding towards unconsciousness with a sense of relief. At first he drifted in an odd half-aware state. It was a comfortable place; familiar from long missions in uncertain territory, where half of his mind would descend into dreams while the other half remained alert. This time, the dreaming half imagined he was back in bed with Clint, watching the sunrise begin to cross Clint’s sleeping face. Clint’s eyes squeezed more tightly shut, and before long he’d turn and bury his face in his pillow. 

Phil started to tumble deeper, closer to true sleep.

Footsteps stopped just outside their bedroom door, and the sunlight turned cold. Something slithered down the back of his neck as he looked up. Alexander Pierce stood in their doorway, reflected in the mirror on Clint’s side of the bed. His eyes were kind, but his shadow stretched long.

“Agent Coulson,” he said softly, “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Phil snapped awake and sat bolt upright in the hospital chair, his heart pounding.

Pierce was still there.

Phil blinked and shook his head.

No— Pierce was  _ actually _ there, in the Intensive Care Unit of Driftless Regional, standing in the doorway to Clint’s room and looking politely worried.

“Sir,” Phil said, then swallowed hard to try and remove the thickness sleep had brought to his voice. “What are…. Um, I didn’t expect to see you here. Can I… how can I help you?”

It was far from his best performance, but then he wasn’t used to seeing the Secretary of the World Security Council hovering in hospital rooms. And he’d thought Pierce was safely back in Washington. He’d also thought Jasper had been a  _ little _ more discreet than that during the building collapse. Though perhaps he had, and it was Dr. Santander who hadn’t been.

“You’re fine,” Pierce said, waving him back down and coming in to sit on the chair next to the door. He leaned his elbows on his knees and looked Phil over with sympathetic eyes. “Don’t bother to get up, you must be exhausted.”

“Eh, could be worse,” Phil told him, brushing it off instinctively. His personal philosophy was to never show weakness to the executive leadership. “Um, what  _ are _ you doing here?”

“Damage control, mostly. At least officially. Of the two of us, Nick and I thought it was better if I came since I have the cover of friendship. Then, too, this way the Council can’t stick their oar in further. There’s been a bit of concern that they weren’t in the loop on this one; the clean-up will probably come in for a bit of scrutiny to compensate.”

Which, in plain language, meant that the Council were pissed Nick had gone behind their backs and were going to get so far up everyone’s butts they could taste dinner, now that they knew. It was the kind of thing Pierce had helped defuse more than once so far, one of the reasons Nick appreciated him. It was also the first time Phil’d been on the receiving end of said assistance. He winced.

“That’s fair, I suppose,” he said. “It probably doesn’t help that of the two of us, Clint’s unconscious and I’m stuck back here behind restricted access doors.” 

He tried not to glance at Clint, still lying silent, too obviously. Clint’s unauthorized, if spectacular, stunt to bring in the Black Widow wasn’t even a year old. His status with the Council would probably be a little shaky for a while to come, and this wasn’t going to help.

“It’s not ideal,” Pierce allowed, sitting back and shrugging. “But as far as I can tell you and Clint hit pay dirt, so once the debriefs start coming in the Council should back off. And Agent Nguyen and Agent… ah… Carter seem to be managing the clean-up well.”

“They’re great,” Phil agreed, “but I’m sure they’re glad to have you around.”

He wasn’t, but it was the kind of thing you said to leadership.

Pierce waved him off airly.

“It’s nothing much. Least I can do— and please don’t misunderstand me, I think you’ve all gone above and beyond here. I don’t think even Nick expected to get Dr. Magnos back alive— and unharmed. And what Miranda could have done…” Pierce paused, and seemed to go a little pale. Finally, he shook his head and continued in a quieter tone. “I don’t think I understand it all yet, but it sounds like she was dealing with things far beyond her understanding. I don’t know if it would have been better or worse if she’d succeeded in finding whatever she thought she’d find, or just destroying the minds of dozens of undergraduates and the Board of Regents. You probably caught her just in time.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” Phil said honestly. “Preferably, we’d have caught her and Dr. Coyle before anyone actually died.”

The look Pierce gave him was complex, sympathetic but also a little rueful. Phil found himself squirming under it, trying in vain to straighten further and somehow come to attention in the depths of the recliner. He felt pinned, scrutinized, even though there was nothing threatening in it.

“And that is why you’re one of the best SHIELD has, Agent Coulson,” Pierce said at last. “If anyone had to take Miranda down, I’m… comforted it was you. I—” the look turned inward, and  Phil wond ered if Pierce's scrutiny felt as weird to Pierce as it had to Phil— “I wish I’d seen earlier how unstable she became. I thought she was being  secretive for, well, for academic reasons. Archaeologists can be so enthusiastic.”

He paused again, and a little sad half smile crept over his face. Phil wondered whether he was remembering Burgoyne, or Dr. Santander. 

“You met during the Bosnian war tribunals, I thought Clint said?” Phil asked, trying to move his thoughts away from Mesopotamia.

“We did,” Pierce nodded. “Miranda was so passionate, so determined to see justice done, bring order, peace… it went about as well as these things usually do. I just thought she’d retreated here because the experience had made her cynical.”

“She was trying to bring an alien with the power of mind control back to Earth to take over,” Phil said dryly, “so I suppose it did.”

That got him a laugh, and Pierce shifted forward again, taking Clint’s chart from its hook on the wall to read it.

“Hell of a price Agent Barton paid,” he said soberly. “They tell me he’s expected to recover well, as long as they can keep the secondary trauma to his brain at a minimum.”

“He is,” Phil agreed, loosening his grip on Clint’s hand a little so he could lean forward himself. “Unless there’s something they missed. The hospital released that information to you? You’re… not family.”

“Oh,” Pierce said casually, “federal emergency order. One of the perks of being Secretary of the World Security Council; glad it came in useful for something besides bullying municipalities for once. I can come and go pretty much anywhere I want to, or wherever I can be useful. Which begs the question, Agent Coulson.”

He dropped the clipboard and looked back up at Phil, calculation back in his eyes. “Have you had a break yet? Anything to eat? You look like hell.”

It was frankly said, sympathetic, open, and entirely in line with what Phil knew about Alexander Pierce. He noticed things, took care of his people— or Nick’s people, and Pierce knew that Phil was one of Nick’s people. But Phil’s brain, apparently, was not having it. He flashed right back to his Fourth of July nightmare: Alexander Pierce holding Clint’s body as Clint breathed his last, and looking up at Phil with just that same sympathetic gaze. Pierce taking Phil’s hand and leading him into the funeral lunch.

For a moment, the breath in Phil’s lungs froze, and he couldn’t speak at all. The remembered pain was too much. When he did manage to get something out, it wasn’t any better.

“No, I… I’m… chutney,” he said, then winced. 

_ That _ didn’t sound like the kind of well-rested person who could afford to turn down an offer of help. And Phil realized that, almost without conscious thought, he had decided to turn down whatever Pierce was about to offer him. 

Pierce raised his eyebrows, sympathy turning into worry.

“Chutney?” he repeated.

“I’ve eaten,” Phil clarified. “Friends brought me food.” 

It wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d eaten the power bars Cassie had hidden in his pockets gratefully, and one of the nurses had brought him coffee, apparently moved by his hangdog husband look. But he didn’t think he fooled Pierce one bit. He  _ certainly _ didn’t think he could convince Pierce he’d had more than a short nap; Pierce knew no one else had been allowed back to sit with Clint.

“You should eat more,” Pierce said. “Adrenaline crash takes it out of you. And rest.”

“Probably,” Phil agreed, and left it at that.

He wondered how many of his hackles were raising just due to the implication, even indirect, that he’d leave Clint unprotected, and how many were due to his stupid dream. Pierce smiled at him like he had no idea he’d featured recently in Phil’s nightmares and… other dreams.

“Tell you what,” he said genially, “I could use a chance to get some alone time after my trip. Why don’t I sit with Agent Barton for a few hours, and you go get yourself checked out. Grab a sandwich, maybe a nap.”

Phil’s clench on Clint’s hand tightened. The idea of leaving Clint alone with Pierce, with no one who could interrupt them… visions of chutney and Clint in his coffin danced in Phil’s head. And maybe it was due to exhaustion-induced paranoia, but Phil found himself remembering Elena Magnos’s warning yet again. Of all the people unlikely to be a mole, Pierce had to be at the top. As Secretary, he could have shut down their investigation with a single word. (”Stop.”) Really, he was an even less likely suspect than Jasper.

But Pierce had known Burgoyne, funded her research, and no matter how regretful he’d sounded just now, he’d had a lot invested in the dig. And in between the time Pierce had seen Clint on Friday and the next Thursday morning, someone had blown their cover to Burgoyne. It wasn’t definitive— hell, it was hardly worthy of being called a hunch, since someone else could have tipped Burgoyne off or Pierce could have made a totally innocent comment in the wrong quarter— but Phil couldn’t dismiss it.

And if he had to choose, if he  _ ever _ had to choose who to trust between Jasper and Pierce? Well. Pierce might be the Secretary of the World Security Council and one of Nick’s closest friends, but Jasper Sitwell had survived El Segundo with Phil. He was damned if he’d give Pierce more trust than he’d given Jasper. 

“I—” Phil swallowed, hearing it come out cracked. He look a moment to breathe, and considered bringing Agent Coulson out to play. He could use a little impervious equanimity about now.

“I could make it an order,” Pierce said mildly, still understanding, still genial. “You need rest, Agent.”

“I need to  _ be here _ ,” Phil shot back before he could think.

His hand tightened on Clint’s again, trembling. Pierce caught the movement, and looked startled.

Ah.

_ Aha _ .

There was the answer. Pierce could order Agent Coulson around, but what could he do to Phillip Moore? 

A voice in his head seemed to be yelling at him not to do it, not to show his soft underbelly, but Phil forced it down. He didn’t have time for dignity right now; he needed Pierce gone, he needed Clint safe. Phil took a deep breath, and told Agent Coulson to scram.

“I need to be with him,” Phil said, letting his voice wobble. He hoped he sounded at least half as pathetic as he felt. “I can’t… I  _ can’t _ leave him, not right now. Not when I nearly lost him. Just… I know you  want to help but honestly I won’t be able to relax if I go to the lounge. I’d just worry that I couldn’t get back here quick enough if something…  _ happened _ to him.”

_ That _ was not at all a lie. Phil tried not to picture walking away, but even the act of pushing the thought aside made his heart beat faster. Since they’d reached the ICU, he hadn’t been gone from Clint’s side for any longer than it had taken to use the en suite bathroom. And that had been while three nurses were in the room puttering around Clint. Even then, that had been the fastest he’d ever managed to take a leak; his flow rate had been astounding. 

Any time Clint was out of his sight, all he could picture was rubble.

“I understand,” Pierce said, sounding entirely as if he did. “That’s… natural.” 

Again that sincere look— and a quick smile, like the thought of Agent Coulson finally falling in love was a great joke, but not one he thought Phil himself would appreciate. 

“I’m sorry,” Phil said, even though he wasn’t.

“Oh, no, don’t be,” Pierce shook his head, still chuckling a little to himself. “Don’t be. But I promise to keep him safe for you. And call you as soon as he moves a pinky, or his pulse changes a hair. It’s really no problem, and you  _ do _ need to take care of yourself. Nick would hate me if I let either of his agents suffer when I’m here and could help.”

“You’re welcome to wait with me,” Phil shrugged as if it made no difference to him, and settled back in his chair. “But I’m not leaving.” 

It felt better than it should, to be able to use his love for Clint like a shield, rather than experiencing it as a weakness.

“I really should order you,” Pierce told him, narrowing his eyes.

“You could, if you really want to reprimand me for insubordination later,” Phil replied. 

There was a long pause, as Pierce watched Phil, and Phil watched Pierce watching him. He couldn’t characterize Pierce’s mood as anything other than thoughtful. It certainly wasn’t miffed. At last, Pierce put both hands on the sides of his chair, and pushed to standing.   
“Well,” he said, “if that’s what you want, I’ll try to be useful elsewhere. I’d wanted to run down the hospital administrator again anyway. I didn’t like his answers when we met, I think he needs a reminder about discretion and the need for cooperation. Lots of the students Burgoyne… took advantage of… ended up here. I want to make sure he’s handling them appropriately. I’ll bring you something to eat when I’m done with him.”

“You don’t have to,” Phil protested.

“Oh, but I do. Thank you again, Agent Coulson. I’ll let Nick know you’re well, and on guard.”

Phil watched him retreat, and decided he wasn’t eating anything the man brought— especially if it came with chutney.

He was probably being paranoid.

Almost certainly.

At least, he hoped it was just paranoia. That was far, far better than the alternative— that the Secretary of SHIELD’s governing council was somehow in league with a woman willing to destroy the brains of any number of innocent civilians in order to bring about one world government ruled by an alien god. Not that alien gods and world conquest were exactly  _ weird _ for SHIELD, but he couldn’t say they were aligned with SHIELD’s mission statement or five-year strategic plan, either. 

Which was why Pierce couldn’t be the mole he was looking for.

Probably.

Phil sighed, curled back into the recliner, and settled in to watch Clint sleep some more. He tried not to think about the rest of it.

  
  
  


####

The steady beep of Clint’s heart rate monitor, and the click of his IV drip, had long ago become the only things Phil registered on a conscious level. Alexander Pierce had been gone for several hours and no one else had visited. The door was closed, keeping the noise of visitors and nurses to a distant murmur, and in the small bubble of safety, Phil had finally let go. His own heartbeat had regulated itself to the beep, beep, beep. 

It was the closest he’d come to sleep. He approached it roundabout, still wary of his dreams after his previous attempts— and still reluctant to let go of the last threads of sound telling him Clint was alive and healing and in the same room. 

Phil had nearly reached the bottom of the spiral and dribbled into sleep when someone stopped outside the door. He came alert in an instant, sitting straight up with a painful jerk.

“I brought food,” Natasha Romanoff said, as she came in.

She looked… not rested, certainly, but not as exhausted as Phil felt. Frazzled, maybe, like her agent-face had started to dry up and shrivel just at the edges. Her shoulders dropped as the door closed behind her, and Phil let himself collapse back into the recliner.

It was the wrong move— first his spine revolted, then his hips screamed, and when they quieted down his stomach let out a long, low rumble. 

“Apparently I’ve been in this chair for too long,” he said, wincing as he straightened up. Natasha raised her eyebrows at him in sympathy, and handed him a vending machine sandwich. It was still in its sealed triangle of plastic— which wouldn’t have stopped her for a minute, if she’d wanted to poison him, but he appreciated the thought. “Thank you.”

She nodded, already drifting over to glance at Clint’s chart. Phil concentrated on getting his aching body in line, giving her time and privacy to assimilate the information. She was hovering over Clint when Phil finally turned to look. Her hand was outstretched, but she dropped it instead of touching Clint— like she wasn’t quite sure he wouldn’t shatter like glass. Or that she wouldn’t. Phil thought of the hours he’d spent holding Clint’s hand. Wishing it would twitch and tighten over his, that he’d feel Clint’s strength again in the fingers, the palm, the tendons of his wrist. Aching to touch even though he  _ was _ touching.

“He’s been stable pretty much since we got up here,” Phil told her gently. “The doctors are… satisfied, if not pleased.”

“Okay,” Natasha said, tapping the top of Clint’s heart monitor and turning towards him. She attempted a little smile, but it fell almost as quickly as it had risen. He understood; the prognosis hadn’t done much to reassure him, either. 

“Thank you for listing me as Clint’s cousin for the hospital,” she added.

“Of course,” Phil said, and stopped before he could add that he’d been surprised to see her. He wasn’t, really, just surprised that she’d been able to get away from the clean-up. He said as much.

“Apparently things move much faster when the Secretary of the World Security Council arrives on the scene,” she replied. “I thought I could be more useful here.”

Also, she hadn’t wanted Pierce to have to take official notice that the Black Widow was in Driftless, Phil suspected. He let the silence grow between them as she finished looking over Clint, finally letting herself go so far as to straighten the blanket over his chest, smoothing it down with a quick swipe and a pat before stepping back.

“You need rest,” she told Phil, making it sound almost like an accusation. “Actual rest, not whatever you were doing when I came in. And a shower.”

She was expecting Phil to protest.  _ Phil _ was expecting himself to want to protest— if not as strongly as he had to Alexander Pierce, since Natasha’s only ulterior motive had to be getting time to watch Clint breathe, as it had been for Phil. And oh, the little part of him that wanted so badly to hear Clint’s voice again wanted to stay, was still convinced that if he left Clint would suffer for it. But even the rumors about Budapest were enough to convince Phil that he was more likely to find Natasha standing over a heap of assailants than for her to let anyone touch a hair on Clint’s head.

So what was he worried about? That Clint would wake up as soon as he set a foot outside the door? That he wouldn’t be there to hear Clint’s voice? His insides clenched.

Yes, that was it. Phil glanced over at Clint again, lying so still. The doctors planned to keep him sedated for at least another day. He wasn’t going to move no matter how much Phil either longed for or dreaded it. Phil sighed, and rolled his neck. 

It cracked loudly.

“I do,” he admitted, and gave her what he hoped was a grateful smile. “You’re able to stay?”

“Four hours,” she said, already moving towards the recliner. “Agent Nguyen wants to hold a briefing, and one of us should go. I assume you’d prefer it was me.”

Phil didn’t bother confirming that, just levered himself out of the chair, grabbing the small of his back as it twinged. 

“That’s more than enough time,” he told her. “I’ll shower, grab a nap… somewhere… and come back. I’d like a brief, before you go.”

There, that came out sounding almost SHIELD Agent-normal.

“I believe the third floor family lounge is currently closed for cleaning. There’s a bathroom there that has a shower, and a lock.”

“That…” Phil paused on the threshold and looked back. “Natasha, thank you. I… I appreciate you doing this. A lot.” He hoped he was managing to let his face be open enough that she could see the truth of his words in it. She deserved it, but it was so hard to let his emotions out when he was so worn down and worried.

She paused in the middle of sitting down, her face gone elaborately blank, so he thought he’d gotten his point across.

“It’s for Clint. Why wouldn’t I help?” 

“No. I mean— what you’re doing for me,” he said, waving his plastic-encased sandwich and trying not to look awkward about it.

“Ah.” She paused to digest that. “I think my answer is the same.”

Phil looked back at Clint again, at the pale cast of his face, the dark blonde lashes brushing his cheeks, the bruises and cuts that distorted his lips, cheekbones, eyebrows. The long, strong arms punctuated with tubes, taped down at intervals and snaking in and out over the raised cords of tendons on his forearms. Somehow just her saying it made him look realer, less vulnerable.

“He’d want you to look after me?” Phil asked, even though he already knew the answer. Clint had taken far better care of him than he’d deserved, during their time in Driftless. Even though it should have been the other way around.

“You know he would,” Natasha said. She frowned down at Clint, too, as if she were trying to work out an insoluble problem. “He loves you. I think you know this.”

“I do,” Phil admitted, feeling his heart clench, and remembering Clint’s slurred, urgent reassurance in the woods.  _ Always have _ . 

He didn’t doubt that Clint had meant it. 

He only doubted his ability to do justice to it.

Phil stepped forward and laid his hand over Clint’s foot, covered by the thin hospital blanket. He squeezed the toes, grounding himself. 

“I love him, too,” he whispered, suddenly glad he’d said so to Clint in the clearing. It would have been awful if this had been the first time he’d said the words aloud. 

Natasha gave a quiet little hum in response, like Phil’d just remarked that the weather was nice, or the Metro sucked, or Nick Fury was a devious bastard. It seemed a little anti-climactic, but then Phil didn’t know what he expected. It  _ shouldn’t _ be as world-historic to her as it was to him. 

“That sounds… uncomfortable,” she said finally.

It so nearly matched his own opinion that Phil burst out laughing, curling over the edge of Clint’s bed and wrapping his free arm around his stomach. 

“No one… I don’t think anyone else would have gotten that.”

“It seems obvious to me,” Natasha shrugged. “Love is a terrible thing to have happen— at least if you’re one of us. It really isn’t compatible with our lifestyle— the risk of loss is too great.”

Whatever was on her face, Phil decided, wasn’t meant for him. He glanced down at Clint’s covered toes instead, and wriggled them a little, just for something to do.

“And yet,” he said quietly, “you love Clint, too.”

“Do I?” The question was mild enough, but Phil thought it carried a strong overtone of skepticism— or maybe wonder. “Is that what this is?”

Yes, it was, Phil thought. He was just relieved that no jealousy came with that thought, because that would have been an absurd turn of affairs. Clint had been clear enough how he and Natasha stood. The last thing he’d wanted was any hint that Natasha had seduced her way into SHIELD. And he’d been clear enough how he regarded Phil, too.

“Takes one to know one,” he told her. “What would you call it? You risked your position at SHIELD— twice, I suspect— to follow him here. To make sure he was safe and had back-up. And yes, I know— you’re going to say it was selfish, that you wouldn’t be comfortable at SHIELD without Clint there. But that’s basically a confession, too.”

Natasha shut her mouth, which had opened to protest, and glared at him.

“I don’t need to love someone to feel more comfortable with them around,” she said.

“No, you don’t. But the rest of it… look, Natasha.” Phil tightened his grip on Clint’s toes, his thumb finding the hollows of Clint’s sole and rubbing it like a worry stone. “I don’t know a lot about love; the only good definition I have, the only one I can make sense of, someone else told me. I want to take care of him. I want to know what he needs, and give it to him. Even if it’s not what makes me happy… or him.”

_ Or even when I’m not what he needs. _

_ “ _ Where did you get that?” Natasha asked, looking like it was a revelation to her— and not a pleasant one.

“Clint,” Phil confessed. 

“It does sound like something he would say,” she sighed. She looked down at Clint as if he was wholly ridiculous. “And I suppose he’d be right. How like him to be lying there useless and leave me to deal with it by myself. It…  _ itches _ .”

“I can’t argue with that,” Phil said, releasing his grip on Clint’s foot to pat his leg gently. He found himself rubbing it before he knew he was going to. “The nurses said he needed circulation,” he explained when Natasha looked over at the movement.

“Well, there’s one advantage I’ve got over you,” she said. “At least I’m not _ in love  _ with him. Are you planning on marrying him?”

“Am I what?” Phil spluttered, his hand freezing in mid-air on the backstroke of a rub. “I. He. Who. Did he? Um. That’s a little sudden.”

“Not compared to his last marriage,” Natasha said, dryly.

Phil spared a moment to wonder whether Clint or Bobbi Morse had filled her in— and how they’d described it.

“I’m not trying to be compared to his last marriage,” Phil managed once he’d pushed that wondering out of his mind. “I’m not…  _ we’re _ not…. Good god, Natasha didn’t you just hear me? It’s taken me long enough not to panic just because I’m in  _ love _ with Clint, never mind a relationship. Marriage is… is….” 

Marriage was  _ legitimately _ scary, even after Phil had spent about an hour out of his vigil so far on the phone with Andrew Garner, confessing to brain weasels he hadn’t even gotten a chance to acknowledge to Clint. And which he was  _ not _ going to parade for Natasha’s benefit, either, no matter how apparently understanding she was.

“Anyway,” Phil tried, changing tack, “Clint doesn’t even want to  _ date _ me. He told me so.”

This earned him an eye-roll.

“And you honestly believe he’ll stick to that?  _ Clint?” _

Phil thought back to Clint in the tree, and had to agree she had a point.

“I’m… I’m not a good romantic prospect,” he said, carefully burying the words  _ which I’d think you’d understand _ . Yes, he’d talked to Andrew, and yes, he was going to try and untangle himself on the subject. But  _ less tangled _ didn’t equal  _ good at emotions _ by any stretch of the imagination. And Clint… Clint deserved better than he had to give. “I don’t want him to settle for someone like me.”

It came out softly, and Natasha softened herself, hearing it. 

“Is that because you’re scared for him, or scared of him?” She asked it gently, as if she thought fear was a very logical response. It robbed the question of a lot of its bite.

“Oh, I’m scared,” Phil said, because he didn’t think it would do any good to deny it. “I’m terrified. But that… it’s not because of  _ Clint _ . Scared for him? I don’t… know. Maybe. Perhaps it’s selfish, but I don’t want to look at him and see someone who got stuck with me just because he was unlucky enough to fall in love with me.”

“Unlucky? Stuck?” Natasha’s voice was sharp, and she straightened up. “Don’t put words in his mouth, Coulson. He’d barely been living with you for two weeks when I ambushed him on campus, and he made me listen to ten straight minutes of him rhapsodizing about you and your… your  _ socks _ .”

“My socks?” Phil asked, bewildered. 

“I don’t know,” Natasha said irritably. “There was a lot packed in there, and I was distracted by cheese curds. You’d have to ask him.”

Phil sighed, and looked back at Clint’s still face, then up at the monitors all beeping monotonously in the background. If only he  _ could _ ask Clint. There was so much going on in his brain and heart that Phil had only begun to understand too late, and in the worst circumstances. He wanted Clint awake to make sense of it for him.

He wanted Clint  _ awake _ , full stop.

And meanwhile maybe he needed to ask Andrew why it was so much easier to believe he might be lovable from a second-hand source, than when Clint himself had been throwing it in his face. 

“Marriage isn’t worth thinking about right now,” Phil told Natasha, trying to close the conversation. He didn’t think he’d survive the headache it was starting to cause. “As for the rest, the… socks. I… would have to talk to Clint, I suppose.”

“But what do  _ you _ want,” Natasha pressed. “Regardless of Clint? Coulson, if you’re so uncomfortable, Clint wouldn’t want you forcing yourself to be with him, either. And you need to think about that, before he wakes up. It wouldn’t be a failure, you know. Some of us… are not cut out for happily ever afters.”

Something in her tone of voice had gone brittle. Phil wondered just how much she’d actually been talking about him and Clint at all, suddenly. Nevertheless, she was clearly just as uncomfortable as he was having the conversation, but worried enough about Clint to force them both into it. Phil did her the courtesy of taking the question seriously, even though he didn’t think Clint was nearly as hot on his socks as she did.

They’d gotten along so much better than he’d expected, playing house in their apartment together. Even the times the hadn’t gotten along they… kind of had. They’d survived Phil’s shoes on the floor and his stale cupcakes, his quinoa and his kale. If Clint  _ did _ ever decide he wanted that— really wanted it, not just wanted it because he thought he should— and if Phil could manage to evict his brain weasels, what then? Did he, Phil Coulson, want more of Driftless? Did he want someone— Clint— to come home to? Did he want the half of his heart that lived in Clint’s body to at least be housed with him? 

The question refused to sort itself out.

“I think,” Phil said slowly, “that it’s not a question I can answer on my own. I think… Clint and I would have to decide together. And I also think that I’d better go and get that shower.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, “that is the best thing for now.”

As Phil turned to go, though, he heard her mutter:

“Anyway, you already answered your own damn question.”

Phil paused in the doorway, the words taking a while to coalesce in his head. When they did, he turned back into the room a last time, searching Clint’s unconscious face, and trying desperately to fix it in his memory. The distance between them seemed greater than it had since they’d come to Driftless. Of course it was— Clint wasn’t really  _ there _ there at the moment. Would it last after Clint had woken up?

Phil brought up the mental image, again, of himself going home. Opening the door to his own, lonely, apartment. Waiting for footsteps. Hearing… nothing. He took a shuddering breath.

“We’ll face that when Clint’s awake and ready to,” he repeated, then walked out the door.

 

####

A three hour nap and a half hour shower later, Phil stood in the wide beige bathroom of the family lounge, buttoning his shirt and staring at himself in the mirror. It was the first time he’d really looked at himself in days, and he was startled to find he recognized his own face. Surely love, despair, grief, hope and worry as enormous as what he’d been through should have left  _ some _ changes. A scar, maybe, or an eyepatch. Something more than the soft purple shadows under his eyes, the worn edges of his lips, the droop of his shoulders. 

He’d spent too long making sure nothing showed on his face, he decided. It had to be like teflon now; unable to hold an imprint even when he wanted it to.

(That wasn’t strictly true, he reminded himself—  _ once _ recently he’d shown far, far too much.)

“Eh,” he told himself, as he smoothed his hair down with his fingers, “you need to stop brooding so much. Clint needs you.”

He unlocked the door and walked out, wondering whether he should take the last half hour to find the cafeteria, or get back downstairs to Clint just in case.

In the event, he did neither, because Phyl was waiting for him in the family lounge, sitting patiently on a scratchy couch and holding a to-go cup in her hand with his name on it. He was too tired to be surprised— or else too used to Phyl. All he did was take the coffee from her with a relieved sigh. Seeing her was bracing; he felt his shoulders come straight and his pulse pick back up. She was almost better than the promise of caffeination she brought with her.

The shower had eased a few of the knots in his back, and the nap and the vending machine sandwich had done the same for his pounding headache. But with those two points of tension released, his entire body was in danger of unspooling into exhaustion. And he couldn’t afford to let himself go, not yet. Not until Clint didn’t need him anymore.

So his smile for Phyl held as much gratitude for the coffee and company as it possibly could. He appreciated the backup a lot, and the distraction from his thoughts even more.

“Thank you,” he rasped as he took the coffee and sat down on the couch next to her, curling his hands around the cup after sipping.

“How’s Clint?” she asked straight off. 

Phil told her, wishing the repetition would finally numb the emotional impact a little. Clint’s prognosis was good— if you ignored the neurologist, who’d just shrugged and said “who knows? Brains are weird.” But a good prognosis didn’t always translate into a good reality. If he needed a counter example, Agent Nguyen had given him one— she’d been coming out of Tesla Coyle’s room at the same time as Phil had come out of Clint’s. There’d been no change in Tess, apparently; no telling when or if she’d wake up, much less what she’d remember if she did. Unlike Clint, she’d aspirated a significant amount of river water, likely when she fell off the dam itself. The doctors were watching closely for signs of pneumonia. It could so easily have been Clint. Just a few changed details (which ones, Phil didn’t know), and he could have been hearing  _ that _ from the doctors. 

He didn’t tell Phyl that part, but he was fairly sure she heard it in the tone of his voice, given her reply.

“He  _ will _ be all right, Phil,” she said, covering one of his hands with her own little dry one. “Anyone who can keep up with you has got to be pretty immune to shocks.”

“He’s tougher than I am,” Phil agreed, feeling a little better just to hear her say it. From someone else, it might have been a platitude. From Phyl, it was just an honest assessment. “Speaking of invalids— Jeffrey?”

“Is all right,” Phyl told him, before sitting back and laughing ruefully. “They finally said they couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with him except a little smoke inhalation, and released him. His daughter picked him up a half hour ago. He was cursing the whole time he was here, I’m told, because no one would tell him about the archives. Afraid the shock would just land him back in the hospital.”

“The shock?” Phil went cold. “Are they— is there anything  _ left _ of the archives?”

If they were gone, he didn’t think time, distance, or a loving family surrounding him would cushion the blow sufficiently to save Jeffrey.

Phyl squeezed his hand tightly.

“Yes, apparently. It’s mostly smoke damage— not that that’s not bad, but compared to what it  _ could _ be, we all got off lucky. Did you know there were  _ blasting caps _ stored in the archives? Out in the open!” 

Phil decided it was best to ignore that question and go with one of his own.

“I’m assuming that there’s things restoration experts can do with the smoke damage. And if the U doesn’t have the funding for it, SHIELD does. In fact—”

“ _ In fact _ ,” Phyl repeated, cutting him off with a jab of her finger, “that’s what I can’t tell Jeffrey. The restoration’s okay— fire wasn’t even out before the Stark Foundation had contacted us about funding anything we couldn’t. Only we had to tell them we’re not certain when we’ll be allowed to get started, because  _ someone _ told SHIELD  _ something _ that made Agent Nguyen declare all of it potential evidence in the investigation and the entire archive has been quarantined. Two guesses who that someone was.”

“Uh,” Phil said, trying to sort out who he’d told what in the last muddled, occasionally hallucinatory eighteen hours. Had he said something to Jasper about needing to know if some of the Dugan journals had survived the fire? He didn’t think so— for better or worse he had scans of most of the un-digitized pages on his laptop. 

Phyl snorted, clearly seeing his confusion.

“Well, maybe it wasn’t you after all. But SHIELD locked them down all right, even the Dean’s protests to the Vice President hadn’t gotten anywhere.”

“I… it could have been Elena,” Phil said slowly. “I know she’d been down there too. But….”

“But it wasn’t. I accused her first, poor woman.”

“How… is she?”

“Elena’s doing fine so far. Resting, mostly, while Missouri beats back investigators from at least three jurisdictions.”

Phil winced. He was glad she’d managed to avoid SHIELD so far, even though the chances that a mole could conveniently disappear her had diminished as its profile had increased in administration. But Jones wouldn’t be able to keep her locked away forever. He and Natasha would have to decide whether to trust Jasper with Elena’s fears, or to hope he could keep her safe without knowing she was in danger. Or, as a last ditch, trust it to Internal Affairs, god help them all.

“I’m glad she’s okay for now,” he said slowly. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been keeping up with anything that’s not in the incident briefings.”

“Well of course you haven’t Phil, what the heck,” Phyl snapped, whapping him gently on the backside of the head. “Everyone knows you’re busy here, and they’re all competent adults. You’re right where you need to be, taking care of Clint. He needs you.”

“He’s unconscious,” Phil protested. He wasn’t sure why— he agreed with Phyl whole-heartedly. Clint needed him here— or he needed to be here for Clint, either way. The thought of leaving made him nauseous. But his SHIELD agent instincts were mumbling in his ear, telling him to get back to the action. “I’m not doing much but sitting next to him right now. And he’s tough, as you said. He’d understand. Hell, he’d probably tell me to go. The apartment needs— we left it wide open. And the evidence… I should be helping Elena….” 

He trailed off, as he realized everything he was mentioning was already being handled by someone— if not Nguyen or Natasha, then Jones or Cassie. 

“You should be  _ here _ ,” Phyl reiterated. “Keeping Clint safe. I can take care of your apartment, or that Agent Carter can, she seems to know you and Clint well.”

Phil nodded, wondering why Phyl had just gone squinty and suspicious-looking.

“I hear she’s Agent Carter’s niece, by the way. Which— well. Nice dye job. Remarkable lack of roots. Sharon was only a child when I met her, but she was certainly blonde then.”

“Er, when you did what?” Phil replied, unwilling to admit that the real Sharon Carter was elsewhere and more than a little startled at this fresh evidence that Phyl knew  _ everybody. _

Phyl gave him a piercing look, before apparently deciding it was an honest question.

“There was a big Howling Commandos exhibition at the Borlaug in ‘96, to showcase part of the Dugan collection. We invited all the families. Dad introduced me to Director Carter and her niece.”

“Dad?” 

“Jim Morita,” Phyl said, shooting him a sly smile. And why not? That was a hell of a reveal, and one she knew Phil would appreciate fully. “Stepdad, really, but the only dad I ever knew. He was a good man. I thought for a little while about becoming a SHIELD agent, but well— it was a different time. And my mother got sick just after I graduated. By the time she passed… I suppose I could have gotten into the steno pool but that wasn’t really what I wanted. And anyway, I— oh, darn you, Phil. You got me distracted.”

“I’m not completely incompetent,” Phil said dryly.

“No, no one ever said you were. But the fact remains your most important job right now is being here. And Agent ‘Carter’ agrees with me. She’s the one who told me to meet you down here. Even SHIELD gets that it’s important to be with people you love.”

“I… won’t argue with that,” Phil said softly. It felt daring, exposed, to admit it to someone who wasn’t a trained spy like Natasha. To accept that even people who knew he’d been undercover had realized that his feelings hadn’t been. In fact, at this point Cassie and Phyl probably knew more about his secret heart than Jasper or Melinda. That… ought to be the  _ opposite _ of the point of being undercover. Fury should send him back to the Academy for a refresher. But for now, Phyl’s words just felt like validation, and he wished he could keep her close to tell him that in the middle of the night, when Clint felt so far away even though he was lying right there. When Phil knew he’d want to slink off, stop pretending he had a right to his place in the recliner.

“Oh, stop mooning and go back up to him,” Phyl grumbled, though without real irritation. “Keep drifting off like that and you wouldn’t be any use to Agent Nguyen anyway. Oh. Though. I can think of  _ one _ thing you could usefully do from here, if you wanted.”

“What’s that?” Phil asked, leaning forward. It had gotten a bit claustrophobic up there, alone with his thoughts and his phone and an unconscious… partner.  _ Something to do _ sounded awfully good.

“I’ve finished comments on Chapter 4. You could start revising  _ that _ .” Phyl said. 

Phil blinked, his brain refusing to make the connection for a second.

“Chapter 4?”

“If you still want to, that is,” Phyl added, eyes narrowing again. “Now that you’re not undercover.”

Oh.

_ Oh _ . His dissertation. Right.

He’d sent Chapter 4 to Phyl for edits at the same time he’d given her the rubbing to have translated. How strange to think that was less than a week ago.

“No, I just… it wasn’t the first thing on my mind, what with the fire and Clint dy… ah, hurt,” Phil confessed. “Yes, actually. If you could email it, I’ll have Na— Agent Carter— bring my laptop the next time she comes.”

“I’ll do that then,” Phyl said more gently. “Give you something to take your mind off everything. Be well, Phil.”

As they both stood up, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first sympathetic contact he’d had since Cassie had hugged him back at Forkenbrock. His knees went weak, and he kept himself from collapsing back into the couch only with a deep sigh and a lot of effort.

“You too,” he told her, “you too.”

If his voice was a little thicker than a senior agent’s should be, she didn’t seem to care.

####

Clint woke up to a heavy silence, broken only by the familiar drone of tinnitus. It confused him a bit— he only took his ears out at home with Phil, but the sheets beneath him didn’t feel like home. Neither did the antiseptic smell. Or the dry air. 

Also— his entire body hurt. Mostly in a dull, distant way, but there were sharp points of discomfort on the back of both hands and at his forearms. 

So he was probably in the hospital, then. 

Wonderful. 

He must’ve done something out of the ordinary stupid, to end up feeling this level of shit. Like someone’d stomped on his entire body with their big, big boots.

Of course, it could have been worse. He could have  _ not _ been in a hospital. Well, not in a hospital but still all squashed. Which kinda begged the question of what was up with his body and how much was he going to hurt for how long.

He could probably find that out if he opened his eyes and maybe called for a nurse.

Nurses went with hospitals, yes?

Yes.

He opened his eyes-- then near immediately closed them again, with a groan. The overhead lights were so sharp they stabbed. He raised a hand to slap over them, or started to. It didn’t go so well, what with the tubes hooked into him. 

All right, so, the opening eyes experiment had failed. Maybe he could wait just a little, see if the light magically softened. Hell, nothing in the room that he needed to actually  _ see _ . 

He could probably have described the whole thing sight unseen, he’d been in hospitals enough. Pale walls, white board with illegible scrawling, empty chair or two for the doctors, maybe a recliner or couch if the  hospital was one that believed in loved ones.

Of course, the recliner (or couch) was usually empty, in Clint’s experience. Well, except for a couple times while he was with Bobbi, but he wasn’t with Bobbi, and anyway that wasn’t who he wanted to be in the chair, either.

Oh.  _ Oh _ . That was it— why he wasn’t in any hurry to open his eyes.

He was only going to see an empty recliner (or couch) instead of what he  _ wanted _ to see: a recliner (or couch) filled with Phil. 

And Clint might be groggy and bewildered, but he knew that was never going to happen. It  _ wasn’t _ . He was a little fuzzy on  _ why _ it wasn’t, but the ache in his heart told him it was true. He made himself imagine an empty chair, right next to his bed.

_ That’s what you’ll see _ , he told himself.  _ Just open your eyes and get it over with _ . He did, blinking until the light behaved itself and he was able to focus.

The ceiling was fiber board, the walls were mint, the white board was a mess, and someone was sitting in the recliner (not couch) next to him. 

_ Hi _ , Nat waved at him, then finger-spelled  _ welcome back _ . 

She said the words, too. They came out muffled but still audible in his good ear, thank god. So he hadn’t managed to destroy the rest of his shitty hearing, at least. 

Clint tried to say hello, he did. Relief had lodged in his throat, though, too big to let words squeak out. She was there! The recliner (not couch) wasn’t empty, after all. Of course, she wasn’t Phil, but no one was perfect. Also, maybe he was getting a bit more lucid.

Lucid enough, anyway, to realize— remember?— that something was wrong with Phil. Natasha would probably know what. 

“Phil?” he asked, then grimaced. His throat was so dry. And Phil’s name hurt coming out.

“Phil’s fine. Well—” Nat amended, as she took something from a plastic bag on a rolly tray next to her, “Phil’s not injured. Shall I put these in for you?”

She held up his hearing aids. 

Clint nodded vigorously, then winced again. Okay, something was definitely off with his head.

She slipped the aids into his ear canals, her fingers brushing his ears and then temple almost like she was petting him. It was so gentle it was almost unbearable. Like Phil had touched him, right before— 

“More,” Clint said, to cut off that memory. Natasha raised her eyebrows at him— maybe because he’d said something dumb but maybe because he’d said it loud. With his ears back in, he could tell. “About Phil. More,” he reiterated. “Now.”

But it wasn’t  _ now _ , because the room was suddenly full of doctors and nurses who all had things to say about him being awake, and things to do to him, and when they left he was very tired, and then shortly not awake anymore.

When he woke up again, his head felt better (or less like it’d been packed with cotton), his thoughts flowed a little more quickly, and Natasha was still sitting next to him, looking pleased and a little confused. Oh, and he still had an urgent desire to know what was up with Phil, if only because he couldn’t pull up any memories beyond a vague sense they’d yelled at each other some time in the recent past. He accepted some water from Natasha, then asked her about Phil again.

“He’s furious,” Nat told him, bemused about it. “Or was when I saw him last. And he didn’t hide it, which surprised me. He’s a senior agent, I’d expected… subtlety, I suppose.”

_ Furious _ ? So furious he wasn’t even pretending not to be?  _ Phil _ ? What the hell had Clint  _ done?  _ He shook his head, trying frantically to clear away the cobwebs. When that didn’t work, he blinked rapidly.

Which  _ also _ didn’t jog any more memories free. They’d… fought. He’d… walked out? Yes. Why would he do that? Where had he gone? 

Images came in flashes: the anthro lab. Worried Cassie. Sorry Cassie. His own worried self. Nothing about Phil there. He pressed harder, got another flash. A cave. He did a double-take in his head, but it was still there.

A cave. Koi swimming on black velvet. Lanterns. A stone head, floating in front of him, vomiting snakes. Glowing red eyes— and then nothing. It was like his brain had just turned off, failed to record. He pushed again, like breaking through a wall. Probably going to be just as painful, too, but he had to know why Phil was mad.

More memories, mostly of senses, like he hadn’t been thinking: running. Panting. Phil’s face, wide open with shock as he tried to shield himself behind a record. Clint’s fist, holding a knife. Shattered bits of vinyl on the floor. More running— and still the memories were weirdly free of emotion or thought. Except for one very clear image of a door that came with a big side helping of fear. And then hesitation, guilt, confusion— he couldn’t go in, but that was where his quarry was. A shape appearing out of the gloom, its head rabbit-shaped, its eyes rolling crazily, its long fangs glistening and mismatched horns thrusting forward— 

“What the hell  _ happened _ ?” Clint yelped, giving up on making sense of his brain by himself. “What did I  _ do _ ?” 

“You’ve only just woken up,” Nat told him, frowning, “don’t you want to know where you’re hurt first?”

The answer was  _ everywhere _ , and Clint really wasn’t that curious about the details at the moment.

“I want to know what I did,” he said. “I know I’m hurt. I want to know who  _ I _ hurt.”

Natasha’s pause was so long Clint nearly went back to sleep. He kept himself awake mostly by jiggling his hands so the needles under his skin would poke at him. After a while, she nodded, mostly to herself.

“All right, then,” she said, and told him.

It was a pretty high-level summary, but even so hearing it felt like being caught in a nightmare. Still, Clint needed to know, so he let her talk, interrupting her only twice. The first time, he interrupted her description of Phil and Magnos’s escape from him in order to say “wait, she’s  _ alive _ ? Alive… and… my counselor? Does the University not do background checks?”

The second time he interrupted her, she had just told him about coming to Forkenbrock to find Phil certain Clint was dead beneath a heap of rubble. He didn’t have coherent words for that, just a low, despairing moan.

“You don’t remember any of this?” Nat asked him when she finally reached the end.

“I’m starting to,” Clint told her miserably. “In flashes. When you tell me, or when I push.”

“Don’t try to remember, not right now,” she said. Suddenly, she was very close to him, touching him gently on the cheek, and her face was troubled. “Clint, trust me. Listen to me. It wasn’t you. It was Burgoyne. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you try.”

“Don’t think I can stop myself.” Even as she told him not to, little pieces were falling into place, or maybe he was brushing dirt off them. Like bits of potsherd, waiting to be dug up and glued back together. “Anyway, I need to know, Nat. I need to know… why. What I did to make Phil hate me. God.  _ God _ . I tried to  _ kill _ him.”

Clint buried his face in his hands— or tried to; the painful tug of the IVs stopped him. He squeezed his eyes shut instead, feeling hopelessly exposed.

“ _ Hates _ you?” Nat reared back. “No, Clint, whatever gave you that impression? He doesn’t hate you.  _ He _ knows it wasn’t you; he’s been defending you to everyone from Alexander Pierce on down. He’s not mad at you at all, Clint.”

_ He should be _ , Clint thought.  _ I went out and died on him just like he said I would _ . And anyway, his ears weren’t so bad that he hadn’t heard Natasha right earlier.

“You said he was furious!” Clint told her.

“Not at you,” she said, reaching out and pressing him down with a hand on his chest. “At Director Fury. He got pulled back to DC a few hours before you woke up. Clint, he sat with you for thirty-six hours straight, wouldn’t let anyone else get near you— not even Alexander Pierce. I was the only one he let in, and I had to wait until he was practically too tired to stand to get him to agree.”

“Oh,” Clint said, feeling tears spring to his eyes. “Oh.”

Nat pulled back a little as he calmed, and gently brushed the tear tracks off his cheek.

“I’m sorry I was unclear. When he left, he made me promise to tell you that it wasn’t his choice. To be honest, I thought he was being a little melodramatic about it at the time. You understand mission necessities. And as far as I can tell you trust him almost too far. But perhaps he knows you better than I do on this subject.”

She sounded so flat and rational there at the end that Clint knew he’d hurt her feelings. He reached out his hand, pulling at the IVs, and found hers. 

“You’ll get there. I’m not that hard to read. He’s just got a little head start. And,” he winced, remembering, “I maybe talked more than I should have. While he and I were being married. You’n’I didn’t have much time to talk, in Budapest. Or on that train.”

“There was time in the cement mixer,” Nat reminded him, sounding serious. Her lips were starting to turn up a little, though. 

“No one swaps childhood traumas in the cement mixer, Nat. He really was here? The whole time?”

“He slept right here where I’m sitting,” Nat told him.

Clint looked at the recliner, and sniffled. He’d been there after all. So close to Clint, and Clint had stupidly been sedated the whole time and missed him. When he looked back up, Nat was staring at him dubiously.

“If I had known you were such a sap, I would have left you in the cheese shop,” she said. She sounded fond, even though she was trying hard to hide it.

“Lies. I wouldn’t have been in the cheese shop if I wasn’t a soft touch. I think I need to sleep again.”

“I think you do,” Nat told him, then tucked the covers more firmly around him. “I’ll let the nurses know you were up.”

The next time he woke up, it was to nurses doing  _ things _ to his catheter. Awful things. They gave him jello afterwards though, to make up for it.

The time after that, he was alone with Nat again, and he finally felt up to hearing about his injuries, which weren’t half as bad as they felt. The worst part of it was going to be the post-concussion watch, because he’d been down that road before and sometimes symptoms popped up weeks later and it sucked. Apart from that, it sounded like a lot of PT and rest and he could do those. He hated them, but he could do them. He told Nat as much, she commiserated, and they fell into a companionable silence as she read something on her laptop and he stared off into the middle distance.

After a little while, without looking up from her laptop, she said:

“He loves you, you know.”

The  _ he _ in that sentence didn’t need defining.

“I know,” Clint said, hearing his voice come out rough, “he said so. Well. He as good as said so.” From what he could remember, Phil hadn’t actually said the word during their fight, though he’d tripped over the start of it a couple times. But the implication was crystal clear. And… he was nearly certain he  _ had _ heard Phil say it at some point, his voice cracking. He just couldn’t remember when.

“I think it spooks him,” he confided.

“Oh, certainly,” Nat agreed. “He seemed as pleased at the prospect as  _ you _ were, when you told me you loved him.”

Clint remembered that day, all right, and how devastating it had felt to realize he’d fallen for Phil. How certain he was that he’d be safe, because Phil would never love him back. He wanted to slap past Clint silly. Then, he realized what else Nat had just said.

“Wait— you  _ talked _ to Phil about it? He. You. And Phil. You… actually talked about him being in love? With me?”  What the hell had happened to Phil in the few days he’d been unconscious to make him do  _ that _ ? “Geez, I get one little concussion and everyone flips out.”

“One little concussion, and a cave-in on top of your head. We thought you were dead, Clint. For hours. That’s not insignificant. Phil might be uncomfortable with the fact, but he’s still in love, and it hit him very hard. I don’t think he left your side from the moment he found you near the dam. You… kept mumbling about fireflies. I assume you don’t remember that, either?”

“I wish I did,” Clint said, forlorn. He’d have liked to remember that, Phil comforting him in the aftermath of whatever’d taken him from Forkenbrock to a dam miles away. They still hadn’t pieced everything together. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrated on  _ fireflies  _ to see if it would help spark a memory.

Spark… like a flicker in the darkness… light coming on in the dark. Flashlights in a cave. A flicker above his head, weaving skywards… Phil’s silhouette in the dusk. Then an impression, of something he’d needed to tell Phil. What?

No, it was no good— the memory wouldn’t gel. He was left with a lingering impression of the moon, and Phil’s face below it, pale and gleaming and open. Just that, and a hurt, empty feeling in the middle of his chest because Phil had been so here when he was asleep, and now that Clint was awake he was far away. He had a feeling he had missed his last chance to see Phil again, just Phil, to hold his hand, before SHIELD swept them back up.

“I miss him,” Clint whispered, not caring how pathetic it made him sound to Nat. Like she didn’t already know that about him.

“I know you do. I get the impression he missed you, too. Clint… did you ever change your mind?”

“About… what?” Clint asked her, confused.

“About being bad for him,” Nat said, putting down her laptop and leaning forward so she could stare more closely at Clint. “About hoping he never found out. About… about wanting to be with him.”

“Oh.” Clint frowned. Their fight was etched in his memory now, so vivid he wasn’t sure he wasn’t hallucinating it in retrospect— at least the bits about the bacon, and Phil’s weird (apparently predictive) obsession with his death. The aftermath was more fragmentary, but: “I’m not sure, Nat. It all changed real fast at the end, there, and he didn’t react at all how I thought he would. Is it really important right now?”

Because if it was, he was screwed. He could barely remember their talk, and he didn’t have the brain power to make any kind of decision about Phil, about them. If he had to make one right  _ now _ , he was likely to throw himself on Phil no matter what, just to ease the hollow ache in his chest that came from not having him physically here. 

“Not right now, no,” Nat said judiciously. “What’s important now is rest. And your doctors— the neurologist is due in an hour for a consult. There’s a lot going on with this mission still, and I want your brain rested enough to help me and Agent Nguyen clean up your mess.”

“Aye aye, ma’am,” Clint told her, trying to dredge up a smile for her. “I’ll implement that nap right now.”

He closed his eyes and tried to will his mind to blank. The memory of a solitary firefly rose against his eyelids, and he followed it into sleep.

####

It wasn’t until a couple days after he woke up that Clint was declared well enough to be moved out of the ICU. First, he had to let the doctors poke and prod him, do their brain scans, do SHIELD’s requested brain scans, and send the results off to the SHIELD medical facilities in Bethesda. SHIELD medical and Driftless Regional staff were apparently collaborating on his recovery plan, which was a terrifying thought. At last, he was approved to move. One of the nurses said off-handedly it had probably taken so long because the doctors couldn’t believe he wasn’t more hurt. Somehow, he’d escaped the whole ordeal in the caves with very few concussion symptoms, some strained muscles, pulled ligaments, and overextended everythings. 

Oh. And one broken bone: a simple fracture in his toe.

Clint still wasn’t sure where he’d picked that up. 

 Once he was out of the ICU, a small but steady trickle of visitors wound through his doors. Agent Nguyen came by more than once to take his statement, then take it again, and yet again as his memories returned in a slow drip. (She also let him know that they had— miracle of miracles— found a listening bug he had apparently forgotten, stuck to Hervey’s bottom.  _ And it had been recording the whole time _ .) After each talk with her, he remembered more of the hours after he’d emerged from the rubble— usually by having a nightmare about it, then waking up and realizing it was a memory.

So that was fun.

The hours previous to his Clint-in-Wonderland romp through beautiful subterranean Driftless started to come back, too, far more clearly— which was a pity. There was an odd distant quality to those memories, like he was viewing his own life through greenish glass, or like a first-person video game with a laggy controller. This did not, obviously, help him sleep at night, but at least his nightmares never got stale for lack of content.

One night, he dreamed of Phil on top of him, trying to beat his head into the floor. 

That woke him up quickly— he shot straight up in horror,dislodging several monitoring devices. The nurses who came running at the sudden squeal of alarms looked about as done in as Clint felt. As they bustled around, re-attaching him, Clint let the full weight of despair settle on him.

Trying to kill Phil had been bad enough, but he’d made Phil fight him, made Phil mourn him. Made Phil wait by his side in the hospital— made Phil feel so guilty for leaving him before he was awake that Phil’d let his Agent Coulson shell crack wide open in front of Nat. 

Some flowers and a card weren’t going to be near enough to make up for that.

When the nurses left, he grabbed his cell phone from the bedside table and started to text Phil. Only… only Phil’s phone had been a burner. Phil  _ Moore’s _ phone. And he didn’t have Phil Coulson’s number. 

Because he didn’t have the kind of relationship with Agent Coulson where he texted him at two AM after a bad dream.

After a brief wrestle with his conscience, he texted Nat to ask whether maybe Phil wouldn’t mind if she passed it on, then put down the phone and tried to go back to sleep. It was a long time coming. 

Nat didn’t reply, because as it turned out Nat had been in the air on the way back to Washington, which Cassie told him when she dropped by early in the morning. Clint let himself grumble to her about the whole not-having-Phil’s number deal, then let himself get distracted by her description of the scans SHIELD had made every student who was in the cave go through.

Two hours later, his phone pinged with a text from Phil.

_ Cassie said you wanted to talk. It’s not your fault _ , the text read.

Okay, Clint was sure he hadn’t told Cassie that he needed Phil because his subconscious was giving him a bad guilt trip. So either Cassie was a mind-reader, or Clint was really bad at pretending to be all right.

_ Cassie terrifies me sometimes, _ Clint texted back,  _ and why does she have your number? _

There, that didn’t sound at all forlorn and needy, right?

_ I thought she might need it. Or you might _ .

So okay, maybe Phil was the mind-reader. Or, on reflection, maybe he’d meant Clint would need his number to debrief. (Though that really didn’t explain Phil’s first text— or did it? Agent Coulson had never let an agent blame themselves for a mission failure, unless he was damn sure it was well-deserved.)

Clint frowned down at the phone, considering his next move. Phil sounded— looked—  _ seemed _ rational enough over text, but he couldn’t help remember that the last time he’d talked with Phil he’d been a stuttering, panicked mess. Agent Coulson probably knew exactly where to put the blame. But Phil…  _ Phil _ … had sat by his side for thirty-six hours while he was unconscious. And he’d tried to knock Hervey out of Clint’s brain by the dedicated application of blows to the cranium. 

Clint thought about cupcakes, and Phil’s reaction to Clint choking on one. 

_ It’s not your fault either _ , Clint typed at last. 

The pause after that was long, so long that Clint had started to type then erase several different apologies for presuming. Then:

_ I’m glad you’re all right _ , Phil sent.

_ I’ll live, anyway _ , Clint texted back, since “all right” was a bit of a stretch given all the hours he was going to have to spend with physical therapists and neuro and psych after this.

_ You better _ , Phil responded.  _ Need you here. _

Then, in a separate text, like Phil’d read what he’d written and maybe panicked a bit, he sent

_ Not dealing with the fallout on my own. _

Clint snorted. Ah, yeah, there was the emotionally-constipated man he loved. They texted a little more after that, and at intervals through the rest of his stay. None of it was all that personal, after that first conversation, though Clint used the opportunity to complain freely about hospital life. But each time, he had to stop himself from typing  _ wish you were here _ at the end of their conversations. It was nice having a little bit of Phil, but it just made his insides ache more afterwards as it hit him fresh how far away Phil was. 

And how much he’d gotten used to Phil being close by him.

Nat’s question to him floated into his mind a time or two. 

Had he changed his mind?

Clint wasn’t sure. But he was pretty sure he wouldn’t find his answers in a hospital room in Driftless Regional. He needed to get better and get discharged.

####

On the day he was finally released, Clint lingered a little as he packed the last of his belongings. There weren’t many— his laptop, his textile textbooks, his slippers, pajamas and sweats. Most of them had migrated from the apartment to the hospital via Cassie— Phil had let her keep Clint’s keys, and somehow gotten her access despite the SHIELD cordon. The textbooks had been Cassie’s idea, the slippers Phil’s, because Phil was in so many of the little things that had gotten him through his hospital stay. 

Which was still not as good as if Phil’d been  _ here _ , or even at their… at the apartment, waiting for him. But all that was left there were packing boxes waiting to be taped down and shipped off (since apparently  _ now _ SHIELD could afford movers). It wasn’t how Clint had expected their life in Driftless, and their fake marriage, to come to an end— he’d thought he’d be  _ there _ for it, recognize it while it was happening. That Phil would be by his side, griping about the packing, not present only in the slipper Clint was currently stroking idly.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Clint turned swiftly, brandishing the slipper— and regretted it when both the torn ligament in his side and his still-uncertain brain rebelled. Luckily, his visitor didn’t seem to be planning an attack. Merlin Santander hovered in the doorway, looking like a sad Santa. 

“Mr… Ford,” he started, even the boom in his voice coming out subdued.

Clint supposed that was only natural; his department was gone and Clint had turned out to be a plant. It’d be enough to make anybody’s beard droop. And Clint needed to own up to his part in the disaster.

“It’s Barton,” Clint responded gruffly, as he hid the slipper behind his back. “And I’m sorry about that. Er. Sorry-ish. Um. Have a seat?”

Santander hung back a moment, apparently trying to judge the sincerity of Clint’s invitation, then sunk his broad body into the recliner. Clint abandoned his packing and his slipper in favor of sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, nearly within Santander’s reach. 

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he started, then winced. “I mean— I thought you’d have a hard time getting away from the University. What with the… the clean-up, I guess.”

Santander huffed a little, humorless laugh.

“Ah. But when your offices, your storage, and your laboratory have all been declared unsafe, where is there to be?”

“Ouch. Yeah. Um… sorry about that, too,” Clint said. 

“Why?” Santander asked, raising both his bushy eyebrows in what seemed like genuine surprise. “The explosion was the work of young Mr. Lewis and his flammable coprolites. I admit it was remarkably quick thinking on his part, but I do regret Forkenbrock. Each time they have to remodel it, it gets uglier.”

“Wait.” Clint leaned forward, startled. He’d thought he was caught up on the debriefings Phil and Jasper had sent him from DC, but he must have missed that bit. “That was… that was… the explosion was Bent flinging flaming  _ poo _ at Dr. Burgoyne?”

“Indeed,” Santander said, so seriously Clint half wondered if he was getting his leg pulled. “Coprolites are, in fact, so rich in phosphates that they were once mined for fertilizer. And if you refine phosphates without care—”

“Boom,” Clint finished faintly.

“Precisely. In fact, I believe a British firm used dinosaur dung in the production of munitions in the First World War.”

“Incendiaries,” Clint said faintly. “Well that could have been real bad. So all this time, the wet lab was filled with unlit molotov cocktails?”

“Nonsense. The rehydration process is perfectly safe— well, so long as you’re careful not to use strong acids. Or introduce them to high heat. I’m running out of my realm of knowledge, but Mr. Lewis had given me several assurances of its safety. Obviously he left a little bit out. At any rate, my point is that you have nothing to be sorry for. I, on the other hand—” Santander drooped, and closed his eyes. “I have been very blind. Miranda— oh, Miranda.”

He looked so sad that Clint nearly reached out a comforting hand. But he didn’t know if Santander was a touching kind of guy, and frankly Clint wasn’t really, not with people he didn’t care a lot about.

“Agent Carter tells me you didn’t know,” he said instead, hoping verbal reassurance would work. “What Dr. Burgoyne would do, I mean, when you led me back into the storage room.”

“Oh no, I knew,” Santander replied. “Or rather, I thought I did. She’d described it as a practical experiment— a recreation, of sorts. Fiddle-faddle, I thought. But Miranda was the Department Head, after all. And it was nothing compared to some of the things I’ve seen scholars do in the name of research. Alexander tells me she must have been building up to this since the early days of the dig.”

“That agrees with my intel,” Clint said, and Santander shook his head slowly in response.

“It’s hard to believe. She had a real passion for the Preclassic period. But then I suppose we never really do know each other as well as we think.”

Clint thought of Tess, tumbling over the edge of the dam. 

“Maybe we don’t,” he agreed with Santander, attempting to shake off that thought. “Had you known Burgoyne long?”

“Since she came to Driftless, more or less. She was something of a celebrity, after the war crimes tribunals. She could have gone anywhere. But she came to Driftless. She told me she wanted to find a place where she could forget all the terrible things humans do to each other in the name of freedom and justice.”

Just after the tribunal— which was just after her work in the Balkans. Where the weird artifacts Dugan had described came from. Clint wondered if it was coincidence, or if even back then she’d thought that the Guatemalan site had a connection to the Dugan artifacts. He supposed he’d never know, with her dead and Tess unconscious. She still hadn’t woken up, Agent Nguyen said. They still weren’t sure she ever would.

“It’s terrible, finding out someone so close to you was doing something like that,” Clint said, trying to project empathy at Santander. 

“Eh. To an extent you get used to it. You’ll see when you’re my age, Mr. Barton. And it’s hardly the first time a Department Head has gone a little off the rails. But they usually don’t do quite so much damage to the infrastructure.  _ Or _ the students.” He rubbed his hands over his face,looking kind of lost suddenly. “With Miranda dead, Dr. Coyle… incapacitated, Jones and Elena in Washington with Mr. Lewis, and Mr. Carvahlo still indisposed, I am suddenly a one-man department. Of course, none of the students are currently in a fit state to be taught anything.”

“What… happens to the department, then?” Clint asked, feeling as bleak as Santander sounded. He and Phil had managed to cause an awful lot of damage to places they’d both come to value. They hadn’t intended any of it, but then who ever did? And sure, Burgoyne was the bad guy here more than anyone else, but he and Phil were both SHIELD agents. They couldn’t have found her sooner, neutralized her without the use of exploding poo?

“The department? In the short term, I convinced the Dean to agree to award you all grades based on your progress so far in your classes. I believe, Mr. Barton, that will give you a 4.0 in summer semester. At least for your archeology classes.”

“I— really?” Clint asked, blinking. “Wow. Not bad for an ex-circus federal agent.”

“Ex-circus?” Santander repeated. “Well, that’s unexpected. Federal agent, now that I’d become resigned to. I take it the Army story was a cover?”

“Which story?”

“The Isis Gate.”

“Ah.” Clint paused, remembering their cuneiform-related bond. He kind of wished Santander’d never had to find out about this particular petty betrayal. Especially with all the big ones he had to deal with. “It… was a little fast and loose, yeah. The, ah, the intentions? I mean, I really do think archaeology is, well… cool.”

It had surprised him, how much he meant it. As terrifying as the tests and lab work had been, Clint was a little pissed off he wouldn’t get to finish his classes. Especially Pseudoarchaeology. 

“Hrmph,” Santander said, his face twisting into a rueful smile beneath the beard, “that’s something anyway. You would have made a fine archeologist, Mr. Ford. Barton. I take it you’re leaving us?” 

He gestured at the nearly-packed duffel bag next to Clint on the bed, with the slippers on top.

“I am, yeah. SHIELD flight out tonight.”

“Give my regards to Alexander, when you see him. I appreciate his advocating to SHIELD on behalf of the University.”

“Yeah? I’m sure he’ll appreciate that— from what Agent Carter tells me, he got pretty invested in the clean-up here.”

Nat had also told him Pierce had tried to spell Phil in his bedside vigil, and that Phil had turned him down. He wasn’t sure which was more surprising to him— that Pierce had volunteered, or that Phil had risked telling him no. The last thing they needed was one more member of the Council pissed off at them. 

“I think he feels responsible for Miranda as well,” Santander said.

“No one but Burgoyne is responsible for Burgoyne,” Clint told him firmly, though a voice in the back of his brain, that sounded a little like Phil, was calling him a hypocrite. “And I’m invested, too. I hope you can get classes back up and running before fall. I’d hate for Cassie and Quent and the others to have to switch majors.”

“Oh, many of them will— many of them have, already. As for fall? I don’t know. We have to find space. Professors. Rewrite curriculum— Jones is in despair over her Pseudoarchaeology syllabus. She has a list of things she’s determined to force SHIELD to confirm or deny for her. Still, we’ll doubtless rebound eventually. The history department is loaning me Phyl Carlson to coordinate the process.”

“You couldn’t be in better hands,” Clint said, remembering Phyl’s efficient way of dealing with his funk after he’d found Ellen’s body.

“I agree,” Santander said, then he stood up and held out his hand. “I think this is where we part. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ford. Have a safe flight home to your people.”

“I will,” Clint said, and shook his hand.

####

There was one last stop to make before he boarded the last quinjet back to Washington. 

Clint walked up the path to his and Phil’s apartment feeling like he’d wandered into an alternate universe. Everything looked just a little off from the last time he’d walked out the door, not realizing it was going to  _ be _ the last time. The daylilies were flattened, like something had rolled in them. There were tire tracks on the lawn. And the door was new— apparently he’d broken the last one. 

He managed to make it inside and come to a halt in the middle of the golden shag carpet, before the oppressive sense of wrong-ness, of not-home, became too much. The apartment felt lonely without Phil there. Agents had already removed their weapons locker and electronics, and Cassie and some neighbors had boxed up their clothing. Clint stared at their lopsided futon, and pulled out his cell phone once again.

_ I’m giving Cassie our curtains _ , he said.

Did that sound too desperate? Too much like a plea for Phil to acknowledge their life together? In all their texts, they hadn’t addressed the love-shaped elephant in the room. Now, as he got ready to leave Driftless, Clint felt like if he didn’t talk about it now, he’d lose that, too. He’d leave their love behind just like he was leaving the curtains with Cassie.

And the futon.

She was upstairs gathering the last of his and Phil’s toiletries, and Clint was supposed to be boxing up the contents of their cinder block shelves. (And the coffee table, which was also going to Cassie but not before he’d cleaned out the contents of its drawers very thoroughly.)

Phil didn’t respond. That probably didn’t mean anything; as soon as he’d gotten back to DC he’d been thrown head-first into the aftermath of their mission. He was probably staying too late, getting too little sleep, and running from meeting to meeting, without spare time to spend thinking about Driftless and the detritus of their life together.

Yeah, that was probably it.

Clint put the phone away and kneeled by an open box, carefully avoiding the ground-in bits of bacon and  _ Baduism _ , and started to sort through Phil’s records. He packed them carefully, putting them in alphabetical order and tucking away any dust jackets that had started to slip out of their sleeves. 

His hands faltered briefly several times: over Sam and Dave, as he remembered Phil doing the twist in a puddle of lamplight in their living room, and laughing to himself. Over Aretha Franklin as he remembered Phil, arms crossed around his midsection, talking about his parents in broken tones. Over Lovesexy, as he remembered… well. _ Things.  _

He was just cramming a Kid Creole album into the stuffed box, growling at the other records which were refusing to make room, when Cassie came downstairs.

“Hey,” she said, immediately dropping her load and coming over to him. “Hey. Hey, Clint. Are you… okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, and debated asking  _ why _ . Except that his violent record-handling and the thickness of his own voice made that a stupid question. 

How had he ever survived undercover, anyway?

“Right,” Cassie said.

She sat down next to him and poked at the records.

“They’re all Phil’s,” Clint told her as she pried them apart far enough that he could push the Kid Creole in. “Like, actually Phil’s. From his collection. He lost a couple in the, ah, when I… you know.”

Cassie nodded, and turned away from him to take the last album—  _ International Velvet _ — from the shelf. She turned it over in her hands a couple times, read down the track list on the back. Clint let her take her time. 

They hadn’t talked about what Burgoyne and Tess had done to them at all, and Clint hadn’t wanted to push her while he was in the hospital. It was too public, with nurses going in and out just at the wrong moments. Now, though….

“I feel terrible,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “For texting you. For making you come. Tess told me— Tess  _ made _ me. But I shouldn’t have. Or I should have found a way to warn you.”

She looked stricken, and so, so young— which she was. Barely legal drinking age, if that, and unlike Clint, she probably hadn’t been basically taking care of herself for years. He wondered just how long a shadow this was going to throw over her life; couldn’t bear the idea that she might not end up as fierce and devious and devoted as she’d been a month ago when they met.

“You did warn me,” Clint told her, taking the album from her and putting it in the box, then throwing an arm around her shoulders. “I wasn’t paying attention, and that’s on me. It’s my fault. Cass, I’m the SHIELD agent, not you. I should’ve seen it on your face. I— no. I did. I  _ did _ see it on your face, I just didn’t think about it. You were just doing what you had to do to stay safe— the blame’s on Tess for making you.”

“No, but. It was more than that, Clint,” Cassie said, though she relaxed and leaned into him, pillowing her head on his shoulder. “After she found out we’d met, she asked me to… to keep an eye on you and report back to her. Like, she didn’t say she was  _ suspicious _ , it was more like ‘he’s new and old and it’s a big adjustment, please be an archaeology ambassador.’”

Ah, well, in retrospect, that made the way Cassie’d glommed on to him so quickly make more sense.

“And here I thought you just liked me for my backside,” he said dryly.

Cassie flushed so hard he felt her cheek grow warm. He kind of regretted turning her into a tomato, but at least it seemed to have short-circuited the self-recrimination.

“I… I didn’t. I mean. You were with Phil and there was no way anyone could compete with. But  _ looking _ , well you kind of… made it obvious. And it’s really nice, but Imeanyouknowit….”

The rest of it was too muddy to make out, muffled against his shoulder. 

“It’s fine,” he cut her off. “The ass is an infiltration tactic, you know. It’s designed to do that.”

That got her to sit up again, drawing back and staring at him incredulously.

“What, like, you pad it?”

Clint choked.

There was no  _ way _ he could answer that.

“You know what though,” he said, deliberately changing the topic, “in retrospect I feel dumb for not catching that Tess didn’t trust me from that far back. Or was casing me for Burgoyne’s experiments, whichever.”

“Yeah,” Cassie shuddered. “And she was friendly to poor Ellen, too. It’s creepy to think that was all… all….”

“Ugh, I know. Actually, speaking of ‘ugh’….”

“’Ugh?’” Cassie repeated, confused. “What do— oh. Milo?”

“Milo,” Clint confirmed. “You want an update?”

“Yeah” Cassie told him. “I mean I know a bit— I heard from Bent that SHIELD transferred Milo to wherever your big medical center is.”

“Bethesda.”

“Yeah, that. Bent said that… he said Milo probably wouldn’t be back this year?”

“Bent’s right; at least a year.” Maybe longer. Maybe ever.

Nat had given him the news; Milo had probably been under Hervey’s control for at least a week, and then nearly died of smoke inhalation. He was… minimally coherent. It was unclear if he remembered anything about his time under mind-control, and even less clear whether his brain was permanently damaged. Even though SHIELD’s preliminary scans had found nothing disturbing in Clint, Cassie, and their classmates, they’d need to be monitored for a while anyway. Just in case.

“Well,” Cassie sighed, “it’s not like there’s a department for him to come back to right now, anyway. Did you hear about our grades?”

“Yeah, Doc Santander stopped by when I was in the hospital. We’re all being given our midterm grades as final. Which is great if all you were taking was archeology classes.  _ I _ had textile design, too.”

“Oh, right,” Cassie said, finally looking up at him with uncomplicated worry. “And you must’ve missed a lot in the hospital. Oh my god. What’re you going to do?”

She sounded like a college student again, and something in Clint’s heart unclenched a little. It was good to see her bouncing back— and it was nice to have someone who immediately understood his situation.

“Well, after a lot of arguing, the professor gave me an incomplete,” he told her, making room for her to put the last record in the box. “Apparently it’s past the add-drop date.”

####

Clint found it hard to believe he’d left the Triskelion less than two months ago. It felt like he was learning its halls all over again as he shuffled through them, disoriented. They echoed more than he remembered, messing with his hearing aids. Through the frosted glass doors of the conference rooms and labs, he caught glimpses of shadowy forms. The light came through at odd angles, the ceilings felt too high, and he longed for the cinderblock halls of Forkenbrock, the musty smell of the archeology lab with its faint coprolitic tang.

He’d barely had time to start getting used to home again when he’d been asked to come in for a meeting. So he’d left his bags half-unpacked and laundry strewn across his apartment, and grabbed the Blue line in (no point in asking them to dispatch a SHIELD car— half of them refused to come out to his neighborhood anyway). The doctors at Bethesda, who’d had him in the morning, had put him on light duty and ordered him to go home, close all his blackout curtains, and nap.

That was going to have to wait for tomorrow, and Clint didn’t even feel that much regret about it. Because it was  _ Phil _ who’d invited him to the meeting. And frankly, he needed to see Phil way more urgently than he needed to soak his underwear. Which was maybe partly responsible for his current disorientation in the Triskelion— he was more busy imagining what it’d be like to see Phil again than he was paying attention to what floor he was on.

Okay, if he was honest, he’d spent a lot of time in the hospital imagining what their reunion would look like, too. When the nightmares crept up or he felt too hemmed in by all those monitors and tubes, he’d retreat into daydreams of Phil’s face. Would it be better to meet in public, or should he wait until Sitwell and Blake were out of their shared office and Phil was alone? Or would that just make it weird? He’d half decided he should just invite Phil over so they didn’t have the whole work dynamic going on at all.

Except, obviously, that wasn’t going to happen now. That was probably a good thing, too. Because he wanted to make it as  _ un- _ awkward as possible to greet the man who loved him but had, the last time they’d talked, told him the last thing he wanted was to do anything about it. And meeting  _ at one of their homes _ probably came with Expectations attached or something— not unlike cupcakes. Good thinking, Barton.

Then again, after hearing so often from Nat and Cassie how Phil had broken down when Clint was lost, he wasn’t sure he shouldn’t be braced for some kind of scene. Phil’s face going pale, maybe. His eyes soft. Him vaulting over the conference table to take Clint in his arms and— wow, no, Clint was gonna blame that mental image on the TBI. And he’d consider later what it meant that he kept on daydreaming about that kind of shit.

Anyway, Clint realized as he turned into the conference room, he was running on the latish side of on time, so he was probably going to see Agent Coulson instead of Phil. He scanned the room, spotting Dr. Jones sitting next to an unfamiliar woman, and… Bent, weirdly. Then he promptly forgot they existed, because there was Coulson smiling back at him from a spot near the whiteboard. And it was  _ definitely _ Agent Coulson, from his neat gray suit to his barely-there smile. 

“Clint! I’m glad you’re back,” he said in a warm voice.

The “Clint,” while new for Agent Coulson, was still definitely a work-Clint, a hello-colleague-I’m-friendly-with-Clint, not the softer, more intimate Clint that used to come out of Phil’s mouth.

Still, just hearing Coulson’s voice at all made Clint shiver in a way it never used to. He found himself smiling back, fighting to keep it from broadening into a grin or collapsing into a grimace. On the one hand, Phil! Right there underneath the Coulson suit! And just as hot as ever. 

But beneath the elation, Clint was panicking. Why hadn’t he realized before that falling in love with Phil meant falling in love with Agent Coulson too? His body wasn’t certain  _ how _ to react anymore, but it definitely wasn’t as professionally as he would have liked. And they were in a friggin’ glass-walled conference room. One with  _ other people in it _ , no less. Clint had to pull himself together, no matter how badly he wanted to fall on Phil’s neck and hug the Coulson out of him.

“Oh man, it’s good to see you,” he managed to say, around the grin that refused to leave his face.

“Likewise,” Coulson said, widening his smile just a little before wiping it entirely off his face and turning to the whiteboard. He’d been in the middle of diagramming something that looked like a cross between a campus map and a circuit diagram. 

Before Driftless, Clint would’ve bought it; now he bit his lip to stop from snickering fondly. Apparently Coulson needed to retreat before he did something dumb, too. He hadn’t expected to come this far, see Phil back in his element again, and still be able to read him. The way he’d used Clint’s first name; the quickly-hidden smile; the controlled, impeccably-written words on the whiteboard when Phil’s notes were usually barely legible— they all gave him away. Seeing that calmed a little— just a little— of the itch Clint’s fingers had to reach out and touch. Instead, he turned to greet the others.

He was promptly met by Dr. Jones, rising to shake his hand. She was still dressed in jeans and a dusty shirt, like she’d somehow managed to wander into the Triskelion direct from a dig despite being smack dab in the middle of a major metropolitan area.

“Agent Barton,” she said, “thank god you’re here. I was starting to feel like I was the only person in the room with any common sense.”

It was the first time in his life Clint could recall being accused of having common sense. But then he didn’t honestly think Jones had it either, so whatever she actually meant was probably something he deserved.

“It’s Clint, please,” he told her, and turned to her oddly-familiar companion.

Who… was Clint’s counselor, Clint realized after a moment, only she’d lost her wig and glasses. Which meant—

“Dr. Magnos,” he said, hoping it came out smoothly, “it’s really good to meet you. Intentionally. Er, knowing it’s you, I mean. Without the wig and— ”

Magnos took pity on him, and cut him off.

“You too,” she said. “Missouri praised you to the skies. And so did Agent Coulson, of course.”

Clint fought down a blush. (Phil’d talked about him to Magnos? How? What had he said? Had it been  _ Clint _ or  _ Barton _ and— woah, time to focus.)

“’Missouri’?” he asked, sure he’d misheard, and Magnos tipped her head at Dr. Jones.

“That’s me,”Jones said, looking resigned. “My parents thought it sounded exotic.”

“ _ Missouri?”  _ Clint repeated, incredulous.

“They were hippies from Aberstwyth,” Jones elaborated, as if that explained everything. “Please don’t feel like you ever have to use it.”

Clint glanced over at Magnos, who clearly felt she  _ did _ have to use it, and that was when he realized they were holding hands.

“Okay,” he began, feeling a lot of things begin to click into place. He opened his mouth to ask, only to spot Bent coming up behind them.  

“Hey,” he greeted Bent, reaching around to grab his shoulder. “Glad to see you in one piece, man. What the hell are you doing  _ here _ ?”

Bent sighed, looking about 200% done with life (which was only about 50% more than usual for him, to be fair.)

“Well, I kind of blew up part of a building back in Driftless, so I figured my chances of finishing my dissertation there were about nil, and your not-a-spouse said he’d like me on the investigation. And my old advisor here—” he jerked a thumb at Magnos— “is willing to work with me if we can get me hooked up through American U, so….”

“So you might as well,” Clint concluded. “Yeah, I can see that.”

_ Hooked up through American _ was probably code for  _ enrolled at SHIELD Science Academy. _ Clint wondered if Bent would figure that out before it was too late to run. He opened his mouth to warn Bent, but was stopped by the door opening again and admitting Nat and Jasper Sitwell. Agent Nguyen followed on their heels— she was probably not going to be back in Kansas City any time soon, given how well she’d been handling the Driftless end of things. Sitwell greeted Clint with a warm nod and a slap on the back that verged on painful, and Nat gave him a wink. 

Then Coulson cleared his throat, and somehow they all found themselves sitting around the table and watching him attentively, with very little idea how they’d gotten there. It was distractingly sexy.

“Thank you all for being here,” Coulson said, moving off to the side so they could see the whiteboard and putting his hands in his pockets. “And for sitting through endless debriefs. I think you’re all up to speed on the intel from Driftless. Agent Barton—”

“Agent Nguyen gave me the packet. I read through it on the flight back,” Clint said. And while he was still in the hospital  _ and _ while waiting for his recovery team in Bethesda; it was a thick packet. Even so it wasn’t comprehensive— Nat was the one who’d filled him in on what had happened to Magnos in Guatemala. She’d also delivered the not-at-all terrifying news that Magnos and Phil thought there was a mole within SHIELD. The transcript of Phil’s debrief had been almost as scary, couched as it was in bland official language and jargon, especially when he talked about Clint being missing. Clint had also read reports from Jones and Bent, Captain Schunk and Cassie— and the full transcript from the bug that had apparently gotten jammed in Hervey. (It had  _ not _ helped his insomnia.)

At any rate, he was up to date.

“Good,” Coulson responded. “So, with this meeting we’re wrapping up the debrief phase and the immediate operation. We’ll be moving on to a long-term investigation into Miranda Burgoyne and Tesla Coyle—” he said the name with an entirely straight face, as if there were nothing either funny nor tragic about it— “and into any connections between their work and the Dugan archives. Director Fury has asked Agent Barton and myself to hand over responsibility for the long-term investigation to Agent Sitwell, in coordination with Dr. Magnos. Agent Barton and I will have control over an analysis of the archives themselves, in case SHIELD missed anything sensitive when they were donated to the University. Any questions?”

There were none, though only because Clint bit his lip so he wouldn’t ask Phil how he’d managed to wrangle an officially-sanctioned opportunity to continue working with the archives out of this mess. He owed it to Coulson to spare his dignity— and to keep up his side of the wall of professionalism Coulson’d built up. 

Clint let himself drift a little, only half-listening to Coulson perform the hand-off. The mechanics of paperwork flow and clearances weren’t interesting. Too many of his own questions didn’t have answers yet, and too many more Tess had answered already. He appreciated being paired with Coulson, though, since it would keep him from going stir-crazy during his rehab. And he was glad he’d have a remaining tie with Driftless, even if it was a faint one. But he was exhausted and achy, and his ears were still buzzing intermittently. Anyway, Nat would fill him in later, if Phil didn’t. Right now, he couldn’t think of a single thing more important than watching Coulson work and trying desperately to catch any gesture or tic that might prove there was a Phil inside. Any thrown glance, any lingering over Clint’s name, any stutter.

Apart from that first smile, that little happy “Clint” when Clint had first come in, Phil there was nothing.

Clint tried not to read that as a bad sign. What if, in the intervening time between Phil leaving Driftless and Clint arriving in DC, Phil had decided that he’d been right— that he needed to give Clint up? Tuck himself away? After the way he’d gone and more-or-less died on Phil, Clint didn’t think he could blame Phil at all.

Though… maybe it wasn’t a bad sign? Maybe it was just Coulson… being Coulson? Which would be good, and what he wanted, right? He didn’t  _ want _ Coulson to be so overcome by his very presence in the conference room that he’d go all telenovela. Because if Coulson couldn’t keep his professional distance while Agent Barton was in the room, there was no way he’d allow Clint to stay in his life as  _ Clint _ , whether they got together-together or not. 

And he really,  _ really _ missed Phil.

Clint groaned quietly to himself. This line of thought was not helping anything. He made himself pay more attention to the meeting, nodding in all the appropriate places and putting in his two cents when required. He even mentioned Santander’s theory that Burgoyne’s time in the Balkans might have affected her, and just generally tried to appear as unaffected as Coulson did.

From the suspicious looks Sitwell was giving him, he didn’t think he was succeeding that well. But then, Sitwell was the only person in the room who hadn’t seen Clint since he’d fallen embarrassingly in love with Phil. He suspected the others knew he was trying desperately to keep from jumping on Phil, and were just as determined to ignore that undercurrent as he and Phil were. He decided he liked them all very much.

####

The meeting broke up after an hour precisely, because Coulson was just that kind of badass. Clint rose to walk out with Dr. Jones, who’d begun passing him notes halfway through the meeting, asking where the good pho joints were in DC. Coulson’s voice stopped him mid-stride.

“Agent Barton, do you have a minute?”

Clint’s heart stopped, right there in his chest.

“Y… yeah,” he said, turning back to find Coulson watching him with an aggressively mild gaze. “Of course. Anything for y— anything you need.”

“Thanks,” Coulson said, nodding briskly. “I’ve got a meeting with the Director and Jasper in ten— we’re still trying to talk down the WSC and we need to strategize with Pierce— but I wanted to make sure we got a chance to connect. Walk with me?”

As if there were any question.

“Absolutely,” Clint said, then turned to wave Dr. Jones out the door so he wouldn’t be tempted to stand there like a fool, just staring at Coulson.

When he turned away from the door, he found Coulson had turned back to the white board, and was wiping it down with extreme concentration. Clint leaned back against the door jamb, trying to play it cool, and watched the swipe of his big hand across the board, the way his shoulders and backside stretched as he reached high. Neither a traumatic brain injury nor a week without Phil had dampened Clint’s lust at all. If anything, he thought, it had gotten worse.

Coulson finished with the white board, then gathered his things from the table, squaring his papers precisely while asking about Clint’s health.

“I still feel like pounded shit,” Clint told him, “but I’ve had worse concussions— and worse everything else, too. Light duty for a while. Some PT for my shoulder. And obliques. And… pretty much everything else. Could be way worse.”

“Yes, well,” Coulson said, still not looking at him, “don’t push yourself harder than you should.” 

He tossed the papers into the secured recycling bin near the door, and held it open. 

“Not planning on it,” Clint replied, walking past him out the door and trying not to get distracted by the hitch in Coulson’s breath as he brushed by.

They walked side by side down the long corridor.

And then down another.

And another.

And Coulson didn’t say a goddamn word, not even to tell Clint where they were going. He was staring straight ahead, his face utterly blank. He was also, Clint noticed, walking faster and faster, like he was going to break into a trot at any moment. Clint and his dodgy toe found themselves struggling to keep up, but he didn’t want to break the silence, or pluck Coulson’s sleeve to get him to slow down.

They descended a flight of stairs, turned down another corridor— were they heading to Coulson’s office? It was a private place to talk, anyway— well, assuming neither of Coulson’s office mates were in it. Sitwell had probably headed straight for the Director’s office, so that just left Blake. Oh  _ please _ let him be somewhere far away. Like Zanzibar. Clint couldn’t take much more Agent Phillip Coulson; if he didn’t finally get to see  _ Phil _ soon, even if it was just to have Phil tell him it was the last time, he was going to scream. 

The thought that he might only get Coulson from now on, that Phil had been a one-time only Driftless exclusive—

“Here,” Coulson said, and tugged at Clint’s elbow.

They were in front of a nondescript door, set nearly behind a pillar, and Coulson was pulling it open.

“Isn’t this just a— “ was all Clint had time to say before he was yanked inside.

It was, indeed, a utility closet; Clint nearly tripped over the mop sink. Coulson shut the door after them, leaving them in darkness for a moment before he tugged on the light cord then turned to face Clint. He was breathing hard. All the Coulson slipped away from him, sudden as a cave-in, and he dissolved into Phil right before Clint’s eyes. Not just any Phil, either: a wide-eyed, shaking Phil, who was staring at Clint like he was something precious and terrifying. Something Phil thought he’d lost forever.

Clint’s heart caught in his throat, so hard he could barely force Phil’s name out around the lump.

But Phil heard it, and dipped is head in something that was half acknowledgment, half apology.

“Sorry—” he started, then cut himself off with a tiny wounded noise.

The next moment, he’d lunged forward and pulled Clint into the most overwhelming hug of his entire life. 

He clutched Clint to him so hard, his arms shook against Clint’s sides and his breath came in ragged pants. Clint’s ribs protested; they’d been through a lot lately. But Clint swallowed down the pain in favor of wrapping his arms around Phil in return, burying his nose in Phil’s neck just like Phil had done to his, and clinging for dear life.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Phil repeated, his breath hot against Clint’s neck. “I wanted to stay. Clint, I didn’t want to leave you. I—”

“Shh, shh,” Clint murmured, because any more of that and Clint’s heart was going to go on strike, “Nat told me. I know. It’s not your fault. It’s just SHIELD.”

He curled more tightly into Phil, feeling the tension start to dissolve in both their bodies.

This was what he’d needed, what he’d been missing, since that nightmare in the caves, since he’d fallen down a fish ladder and ended up in a hospital. Strong arms around him, a warm shoulder to rest his head on, affection—

His breath stopped for a moment, and not because of Phil’s tight hold on him. He hadn’t realized quite how resigned he’d been to never seeing Phil again, to Phil running away like he’d threatened to do over bacon that last Driftless morning before the catastrophe. But Phil hadn’t run, at least not yet. Here he was, clinging and desperate, apologizing.

_ Have you changed your mind _ , Nat had asked. Clint couldn’t speak for himself, not yet, but something had certainly changed  _ Phil’s _ mind in the time they’d been apart. The only question was how changed it was.

Well— and whether Clint wanted whatever Phil’d changed his mind to.

Clint snuffled the warm soap and detergent scent of Phil’s skin and considered just leaving it. He could let Phil lead, pick up his cues and follow along, even if that meant never talking about it again. Clint was a past master at that. 

But that sounded… depressing. And, frankly, Clint’d had enough of following someone else’s will, just at the moment. Anyway, it wasn’t fair to either of them. They were colleagues no matter what— they’d proved that in the briefing— they could handle some awkwardness. And Driftless had  _ happened _ , and he loved Phil, and Phil loved him and was scared half to death of it, and all these things deserved to be acknowledged. He pulled away from Phil’s neck just enough that his words would come out clearly.

“Phil, I… can we… I’d like to talk,” he said, more or less into Phil’s ear. He felt Phil stiffen, then nod.

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out rough but not uncertain. “Of course, Clint, if you want to. Please. I’d like that. I’ve been… there are things I need to tell you. But I really do have a meeting in five. I just couldn’t wait any longer to—”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Clint interrupted, squeezing him tighter. 

Phil gave a helpless little moan, digging his fingers into Clint’s back, and laughed helplessly.

“I nearly jumped over that damn table to get at you,” he confessed. 

Clint’s breath caught at the idea of it, and he had to fight to keep from pulling back and kissing Phil senseless. They absolutely weren’t there yet. They might not  _ get _ there. And he didn’t want to ruin the moment by muddling it all up with kisses, just because they’d once had sex. Twice. Twice had sex. And Clint needed to stop thinking about that before he lost all control.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he told Phil gruffly. “Sitwell might have. What about after work somewhere? I need to head home before I collapse, anyway.”

“After work is good,” Phil agreed, burrowing closer and making a soft contented noise in his throat. “Should I go to yours?”

Clint thought about his sink full of underwear, the stale smell of weeks of DC summer heat in a shut-up apartment.

“Um… my place looks like no one’s lived in it for a month. Your place?”

Phil froze so long Clint was sure he wasn’t going to answer, but then….

“My place isn’t much better; I’ve barely been home except to sleep since I got back.” Which explained why he’d frozen, anyway. “But yes, sure. I’d… love to have you there. Um. I’ll text you the address?” 

“Yeah. Please do that,” Clint said, then pulled him tight one last time, to make sure the embrace would last him— and Phil— until that evening. He smelled so good, so much like Driftless, still. Like home. His hands on Clint’s back, spread wide like he needed to feel as many square inches of Clint under him as possible, were grounding. Clint felt like he was back on the IV drip, floating and relaxed. He didn’t want to let go. 

But he couldn’t make Phil late for his meeting; Phil needed to be able to be Coulson, still.

Reluctantly, he peeled himself out of Phil’s arms. He backed away until his foot hit the mop sink and he had to step into it, and he could hold Phil at arm’s length. Phil was staring at him like he’d never seen a human male before, all wide-eyed wonder, and Clint felt about twelve feet tall, even while his heart ached. He fought the urge to give Phil a parting kiss. They weren’t undercover any more. It would mean things now that he had no idea if he could live up to.

Also, he might not let Phil go in time for his meeting. “I’ll see you this evening,” Phil breathed, his eyes wide and dark in the low light of the closet.

Clint nodded.

For a long minute, neither of them moved. They just stood there, watching each other, Clint’s hands flexing on the fine wool of Coulson’s suit sleeves, Coulson’s fingers tightening against Clint’s bare forearms. Finally, Phil gave him a last solemn little smile and stepped back further, sliding his hands down Clint’s arms till they met Clint’s.

He gave Clint’s hands a last, fond squeeze, then turned away. Between one breath and the next, he became Agent Coulson again, smoothing out his suit jacket and shooting his cuffs with quick, contained movements.

Clint had never been so aroused— or irritated— by someone straightening their tie in his life.

Coulson winked at him before he left.

It took Clint a good minute and a half to realize he was standing alone in a utility closet, with one foot in the mop sink, and staring at the door like a codfish. He closed his mouth, opened the door, and headed for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on Driftless: Clint and Phil have that talk, develop a plan, and act on it. Meanwhile, the investigation proves that everything is not as wrapped up as they thought. Chapter posts about November 26.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing about the Driftless mission wraps up neatly. Phil and Clint are making a lot more progress on one front than the other-- even if they're doing it majorly sleep-deprived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to the fabulous LauraKaye for betaing above and beyond the call. 
> 
> Thanks to you readers for your patience as I completely failed to deliver this chapter on time-- hopefully the feels, the talks, and the sheer length are worth the wait. Also, this chapter split, and split hard, so the total chapter count has upped to 15. The last chapter will be an epilogue, so the main action ends next time.

The sun was low and golden over the Columbia Pike, just on the verge of blinding the westward commuters, by the time Phil made it back home. It turned the dull brick of his apartment deep red and set fire to the usually dingy faux-Colonial trim of his doorway. For something so familiar he could recognize it half-blind and hallucinating (and had), it stopped him dead tonight. Clint was going to be standing right in this place, on this stoop, tonight for the first (and only?) time. Would it look welcoming to him? Intimidating? Hopelessly staid?

“Damnit, it’s a front door, not an eHarmony profile,” he grumbled to himself. “Stop overthinking.”

Easier said than done; Phil’d already spent the entire forty-five minute commute thinking about Clint. He’d gotten up a good head of steam. On the shuttle from the Triskelion to Rosslyn, he’d been lost in memories of the hug he and Clint had shared in the thirteenth-floor utility closet-- so lost, his humming had scared the quinjet tech in the row behind him. From Rosslyn to Pentagon station, his thinking had taken a turn, and he’d become convinced he’d been too pushy. 

Clint had only just gotten home. He was still on light duty, he was clearly exhausted, and probably sore. On top of that, Phil was willing to bet that his mental state was not great. No one just walked away from being under alien mind control  _ and _ being concussed without at least a few mental hang-ups. The last thing Clint needed was to have to deal with all of Phil’s insecurities, his lonesomeness, his conflicting desires. What he probably needed was a nap and a quiet night-- or maybe several-- in his own bed.

The bus ride from Pentagon station to home, Phil spent trying to decide whether to text Clint and tell him not to come over after all, no matter how much Phil wanted to see him again, talk to him, sit him down and stare at him until he was fully satisfied Clint was all right. Except Clint had asked him if they could talk, then half-invited himself to Phil’s home. If Clint was regretting it, Phil’d make sure he knew he was under no obligation to stay, but if Clint really needed to talk now, tonight— well. Phil would give that to him. 

Also, Phil thought as he collected his mail from the box in the entryway, he wouldn’t do the sitting Clint down and staring at him thing. Because that would be weird and uncomfortable. And not emotionally intelligent. And Phil had spent too much time being weird and uncomfortable and not emotionally intelligent around Clint _already._ He needed to  make up for past bacon-related impressions, not act like the romantic lead in a Bronte novel.

He needed to be reasonable. Understanding. Low-key. Cool. 

No-- not cool. Cool would imply Phil wasn’t invested, and that wasn’t the impression he wanted to give either. Warm. He needed to be warm. Confident. Except not too confident because he didn’t want Clint to think that Phil thought he was anything remotely resembling a sure thing, or that Phil thought that Clint would automatically want what Phil wante-- he needed to calm down, was what he needed.

“Deep breath, Coulson,” Phil muttered to himself as he turned his key in the lock of his own apartment and swiped his thumb against the biometric scanner hidden in the door plate. “You’ve prepped for this.” He’d talked it out with Andrew. He’d  _ got _ this.

His confidence lasted as long as it took him to get inside, glance up at the clock on his wall, and realize Clint was due in ten minutes.  _ Ten minutes _ . And Phil was still in his work clothes, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t cleared the clutter from… anywhere, really— and also had urgent business in the bathroom.

Well, at least his order of operations was clear; he could sneak a power bar or shove the mail into a drawer while Clint’s back was turned but he absolutely could not afford to be caught with his pants down when Clint showed up. And pants were important-- he wanted to be in casual clothes, just to remove any last taint of the Triskelion from their talk. So all clothing-related activities came first. Phil scrambled to the bathroom, praying Clint would follow his usual five-minutes-late-is-still-early pattern. 

At precisely 7:30, while Phil was still untying his tie and had just gotten his shoes off, the doorbell rang. He went to look forlornly at the video feed on his security panel. Clint was standing on the stoop, glancing around, bouncing on his heels, and just generally looking nervous as hell. He still felt too Agent Coulson around the edges, but there was no way Phil was making a guy with that look on his face ring twice, just so he could finish changing his pants. He buzzed Clint through the outer door.

Phil was still rolling up his second sleeve with one hand while he opened the apartment door with the other. And there stood Clint, in all his glory, really, actually in Phil’s home.

Clint really did look incredible, just like he had in their briefing that afternoon: scruffy, wan, stiff, with dark circles like half moons under his eyes, but alive. In face, he was radiating Clintness. His personality was even less contained now than it had been at SHIELD— Clint was smiling at Phil like he couldn’t help it, even if it was a terrible idea. Phil forgot to say anything, too busy beaming nervously back. As present as Clint had been in his thoughts for the last week, somehow he’d forgotten what full-strength in-person Clint could be like.

“I um,” Clint said, holding up a bag, “there was an Ethiopian place near the bus stop and they were venting and it smelled so good and I hadn’t had injera in forever and anyway I’d taken the early bus and needed to kill time and so I kind of brought dinner?”

It smelled unbelievable, kind of like Clint himself. 

“Um,” Clint continued into the silence while Phil just stared at him and tried to bite back the endearments crowding up at the back of his teeth, “We don’t have to— if you made something. Or ate. I just thought you might not’ve had time to cook. Sitwell told me they’re kinda running you ragged, and I like cooking with you— you know I do— but tonight I didn’t really want to share you with kale?”

Phil looked down at the plastic bag in Clint’s hand, and his stomach rumbled in approval. 

“God, I could kiss you,” he sighed before he could stop himself— then flushed painfully. That was  _ not _ how Reasonable, Low-Key, Un-Pushy Phil should greet the object of his affections. No matter what the berbere-laced provocation.

“Well, uh,” Clint spluttered, flushing himself, “you could. I mean— that would be… cool. Super cool.” He paused to wince at himself. “I guess I just…. I wasn’t expecting that. Yet. I mean… right now. Fuck, at least it would shut me up?”

“No, you’re fine, It’s my fault,” Phil said, and grabbed the bag from him. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m glad you would be cool with it, just— we should probably eat first. And talk. We were going to talk.” He stopped short, sighed, and tried to pull himself together. At this rate, he was going to dissolve into a puddle before they even got out of the doorway. “I promise I can be… better than this. I think, after… the way things ended, in Driftless. I’m just not, I’m not…”  _ back in control yet. _

Phil wondered whether he ever would be, where Clint was concerned.

“No, I get it,” Clint told him, placing a careful, comforting hand on his shoulder. “Trust me, I  _ really _ want to kiss you, too. But I usually do, so, it’s not… you’re just…. And then you hugged me this afternoon and honestly I haven’t recovered yet and… yeah. Wow. We’re both pathetic, and I think we really do need to talk, like  _ talk _ talk, this time, instead of just doing that. Um. Again.”

“Right,” Phil said, nodding sharply and trying to look composed.

“Right,” Clint agreed, doing the same.

Then he sagged.

“But maybe I could… hug you, if you want? Because it’s not complicated like kissing, right? And I figure you could maybe use one— I know I could.”

He held out his arms tentatively.

Phil walked straight into them, wrapping his arms around Clint’s waist and burying his head in Clint’s neck. Abruptly, the buzzing restlessness in his limbs stopped. He slumped into the hold, sighing. Clint’s arms closed about his shoulders, strong and sure. The take-out bag, still in Phil’s hands, thumped against Clint’s ass. 

Eventually, Clint shifted, and asked whether they should maybe eat. Phil gave his neck one last sniff, just to fix Clint’s warm smell in his memory, nodded, and pulled back.

“We should. Tell you what— the dining room’s down the hall on the right if you want to put those down in it and get comfortable. I’ll grab drinks?”

Clint agreed and wandered into the dining room to start setting out foam clamshells. Phil tried to remember if he’d cleaned the accreted mail off the far end of his too-big table, then decided it probably wasn’t the worst evidence of his disorganized home habits that Clint had ever seen. On checking, he found at least half the table mail-free, and Clint puttering about in the soft evening sunlight that streamed through the louvers on the back windows. He still looked exhausted, a pale limping version of himself, but that only made it harder to deny that he was really there. And really  _ Clint—  _ Barton, not Ford.

Phil’s stomach twisted. He swallowed hard, trying to fight it down, breathe through it, examine the reaction. It didn’t feel like his disastrous bacon-induced panic, anyway. It was more like sitting beside Clint at the hospital, waiting desperately for him to wake up.  _ So, _ Phil thought,  _ that’s the first test passed.  _ He went in to get the wine.

####

Even as hungry as Clint was, it was hard to keep his mind on dinner. He kept getting distracted watching Phil’s long fingers as he tore injera, feeling them brush his own knuckles as they both made for the yebeg alicha at the same time, following the bob of Phil’s adam’s apple as he drank.They’d decided to forego plates in favor of just digging in, sitting kitty-corner from each other at one end of the table with the clamshells between them. Even Clint Ford and Phillip Moore had never done something so aggressively couple-y.

The whole thing had been a risk on his part, he realized after the fact. It could have gone so wrong. Phil could’ve made dinner after all, or thought Clint was making assumptions about their rela… about their talk. Or gotten pissed at Clint for assuming that Phil  _ wouldn’t _ have made dinner, or… any number of things. 

Instead, he was babbling contentedly while they split the stewed greens, and a faint flush had taken up residence on his cheeks, darkening each time Clint paused to lick his fingers. (Clint wasn’t  _ trying _ to be provocative, it was just that injera was notoriously sticky.) The pink on Phil’s cheeks could’ve been a product of the wine they were sharing, but Clint preferred to take it as a promising sign. Not that he’d decided what to  _ do _ about that kind of promise yet. That was still very much a wait-and-see-- Phil’d already proved he wanted Clint’s body. It was the rest of him that was an open question.

At least they’d managed to get over their initial awkwardness; Phil’d asked how Clint was settling back in, Clint had asked back… and by now they’d spent fifteen minutes and all the misir wot on the kind of daily logistics that had filled their conversation in Driftless. It was… nice. Homey. Grounding. 

“So, speaking of SHIELD,” Phil asked, dragging Clint’s attention back from his fingers, “would you rather talk work now or… after?”

“Work?” Clint looked up, startled. It hadn’t occurred to him that the Phil who’d engulfed him in the utility closet could possibly have meant he wanted to get together to talk about their mole hunt. It did make an awful kind of sense. Or else, maybe Phil was chickening out, retreating back into Agent Coulson on him. Clint narrowed his eyes at Phil, just in case.

Phil seemed to catch on to Clint’s suspicions, because he winced.

“I wasn’t really planning on mixing business and… um… personal-- honestly I’d prefer to forget SHIELD exists for a night. But it did occur to me that you’re not up to date, and that’s not fair to you. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to get it out of the way first, in case… in case….”

_ In case things get awkward, and one of us needs to storm off,  _ Clint thought. Not that Phil could storm off, since it was his house. Well. He  _ could _ , but it’d get weird. 

“How clean do you keep this place?” Clint asked, playing for time while he figured out what Phil wanted from him, here. “I mean, you were gone awhile, and….”

And if there was a mole at SHIELD, they’d had plenty of time to bug the apartment while Phil was in Driftless. Phil nodded, catching his meaning.

“I haven’t had the cleaners in yet, but I gave it a pretty good scrub when I got home. And my landlord keeps an eye on things.”

“Your landlord?” Clint asked, not sure what that was code for. 

“My landlord, Yvgeny,” Phil said, pointing at the ceiling. “Lives upstairs. He’s former Israeli diplomatic corps— which was probably cover for Mossad, let’s be honest. Retired here. Fell in love with an Alabama girl working for the federal government. She died ages ago. Anyway, he owns the entire row. There’s a nice kid from the State Department next door. Upstairs from him is Edna, who spent years in an organization I’m not supposed to know about. The other side has two gentlemen attached to the British Embassy and one from Argentina….” 

“I get the drift,” Clint grinned. It was such a Coulson arrangement he honestly should have expected it. “No wonder you live all the way out in Arlington.”

“Well, that and the rent is cheaper— comparatively. Also the food is good, and it’s a short drive to the Blue Line.”

“I like your neighborhood,” Clint told him, and Phil… well, he  _ beamed _ . Then he shut it down with a complex little nose-wiggle, like he was startled at himself. 

And that decided it. 

“Work can wait,” Clint told him. “Maybe we can take a walk or something. It’s not that important.” 

Well, no, of course not, it was only a mole hunt, for God’s sake. Clint winced, and continued.

“I mean, we’re not gonna solve it tonight. It’s, um, not why I came here.”

No, he’d come-- he’d insisted on tonight despite the distance and the transfers and the dull ache in his ribs-- because he’d spent too many days stuck in a stupid hospital bed with moles and fake marriages running through his mind. He was determined, now that he and Phil were together again, to get answers on  _ one _ of those two topics— and to be honest, it wasn’t the goddamned mole hunt. 

“Okay,” Phil said, clearing his throat and drawing himself up, “Okay.”

He looked determined, and kind of like he was about to step out into a firefight. In fact, yes, he had exactly that calm  _ just follow me and don’t get hit _ look on his face. Then he swigged down half his wine in one gulp.

“Okay,” he said again.

And god, Clint couldn’t bear to feel like the barrel of the gun Phil was staring down.

“Phil,” he said, reaching out and covering Phil’s free hand with his own, before he could talk himself out of it, “it’s okay. We’re… we’re gonna be okay. If you’re nervous, we can—”

“I’m not nervous, I’m scared,” Phil snapped, cutting him off, and setting his wine glass on the table so abruptly it shook. “You terrify me, Clint.”

So Phil wasn’t planning to beat around the bush, then.

“Oh,” Clint said, hearing it come out thick. 

He started to pull his hand back. Only, Phil turned his palm and grabbed Clint’s fingers before he could get away. He squeezed hard, and Clint realized he was trembling ever so slightly.

“In retrospect, that was kind of apparent the last time we… talked,” Clint finished. He didn’t mean it to come out quite as dry as it did, but well. Really.

Phil grimaced in acknowledgment.

“I need to apologize for that. It’s not… it wasn’t really you. I— arg. I’m going to say this wrong. Look, Clint.” Phil took a deep breath and squeezed Clint’s hand again. “I’m afraid if I’m not careful I’m going to do this all wrong, and it’ll end up like Driftless all over again. So can I just tell you what happened there first, and then you can ask questions? And if you still want to, we can talk more after that? And… understand I don’t have a good vocabulary for this. It may end up sounding… well, as bad as it did just now.”

Clint blinked, momentarily stunned. Had Phil… just set an agenda for their relationship talk? Well okay, if he could do it, so could Clint.

“We can do that,” Clint agreed, “if you promise to let me try and explain, too. I don’t always know how to talk about this stuff, either. And… and I don’t want to get it wrong. With you.”

He was looking down at their linked hands as he said it, watching his own knuckles go white as he tightened his grip, like Phil was the grab-bar he was using to brace himself for what he needed to say next.

“Clint--” Phil started, but Clint rolled right over him, his voice coming out high and tight.

“And to be honest? I’ve got a track record of screwing things up and I was kinda terrified too, in Driftless. Not… of you. Of me. Does that make sense?”

He glanced up. Phil met his eyes for a moment, then huffed out a sad little half-laugh and ducked his head to stare moodily at the soggy remnants of his injera.

“It does. And I… don’t want either of us to go through that again.”

He looked so forlorn that Clint didn’t think, he just shook their joined hands.

“Hey Phil.  _ Phil _ .” 

Phil looked up.

“I love you,” Clint told him, shocked to hear it coming out of his own mouth. Phil’s face went slack with surprise, so at least that was both of them. “I know that doesn’t mean— doesn’t have to mean— anything we don’t want it to. But I do. Love you. Just. So you know that going into this. Um.”

“Oh, I know,” Phil said, softer than Clint’d ever heard him before, something melancholy in his smile. “I know. How much do you remember from after you fell off the fish ladder? Do you remember what you said?”

“No,” Clint confessed, “I’ve got super vague impressions, that’s it. Why. Did I…?”

Oh god, had he gone all mushy on poor, long-suffering, freaked-out Phil? Great move, Barton. 

Phil ducked his head again, but it didn’t stop Clint from seeing a look on his face that took Clint’s breath away. Reminiscent, a little sad… and startlingly smug. He didn’t have to  _ say _ anything, with a look like that. 

And he didn’t. He just covered their joined hands with his free one, looked up, and said:

“I love you too, you know.” 

Just like that, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it, the first time Clint had  _ heard _ it, and— and it didn’t feel like it was the first time, actually. Suddenly, Clint was furious he couldn’t remember more. Curse fish ladders, and curse concussions, and curse Hervey. Because it sounded  _ so good _ , even if he knew it didn’t solve anything. 

“Okay then,” Clint said, when he’d finished processing that, “Lay it on me. I promise not to shriek. Why did you freak out that morning in Driftless?”

Phil snorted, his entire body heaving with what looked like unhappy laughter.

“’Freak out’ is right, that’s pretty much what it was— a panic attack. I don’t… have them often, so I didn’t realize that’s what it was until after you left. And I felt awful that I put you through it. You didn’t deserve that, and… and I’m sorry.” 

He looked it, too, and Clint kind of wanted to crawl over the table and hug the hangdog off his face. 

“Hey, I’ve been there,” he said instead, trying to inject reassurance into his voice. “You saw me with the cupcake. They’re fucking hell to pull out of even if you know what’s going on. Truth to tell it’s kind of a relief, since I figured the other option was you secretly come from a soap opera.”

Well, mostly a relief— he couldn’t say it felt great that being in love with him was apparently a cause for panic. In fact, it dropped him right back into the sour-stomach feeling he’d gotten when Bobbi’d signed their divorce papers, then looked over at him and said “I wish you’d fight this a little more, Clint. Just to make me feel better about it. It’s hard when I still care about you.”

But that was Bobbi, not Phil. Phil, who was still cringing and blushing from the soap opera comment like it was something other than a failed attempt at humor.

“Hah. Maybe I do. Let’s face it-- an orphaned spy with trust issues wouldn’t be out of place on the daytime dramas,” Phil said, shaking his head ruefully. “But, Clint, it’s not like your cupcake thing. That was… I helped trigger that, and I know it and own it. But my panic attack? That was on me and my past, not on anything you did or didn’t do.”

“I didn’t help,” Clint started, only to pause at Phil’s growl and the way his hand convulsed under Clint’s. 

“Clint. Can you please do me the favor of believing me when I say you weren’t complicit in your own hurt, here?” he asked, his eyes flashing with nearly Coulson-like intensity all of a sudden. Clint’s sour stomach disappeared in a rush of… well, he wasn’t sure if it was lust or just surprise that was stopping his breath, heating his face.

“Fine,” he said, trying to gentle Phil down. Phil gave him a skeptical glare, and oddly, that was what broke down the last of the pain in his chest. “I get it, Phil, I do. And I appreciate the apology. But… to be honest, I was hurt, yeah, a little, but mostly I was really confused. I mean, ‘what happens to me when you die’ seemed a little extreme.”

“Well, right, I thought so too, once I’d started to calm down. Until I realized…” here, Phil paused, and with the hand that wasn’t attached to Clint started to tear the remaining injera into confetti. “You know about my parents. You… did you know you’re one of the only people I’ve talked to about them, since my Mom died?”

Clint hadn’t, really— Phil’d said he hadn’t talked about them in a long time, but— hardly ever? And they’d  _ loved _ him, and each other. It wasn’t like Clint’s parents, where talking about them just reminded him of broken bottles, beatings, his mom sobbing— he shook his head, so Phil’d know he’d processed the question and could continue. Phil gave him a look that said he’d seen a lot more than just  _ I didn’t know _ on Clint’s face, a kind of sad compassionate smile, and continued.

“Well, you are. I thought… well, I was young and stupid and wanted to be a secret agent and I thought that talking about your dead parents would get in the way of that. Then I got older and stayed stupid, when apparently I should have been ‘processing my emotions,’ so again, I’m sorry for that.”

Here Phil paused to rub his lips against the back of his free hand, as if trying to hold something back. Midway through the gesture, he seemed to realize he was in danger of painting his face with kik from the injera. He dropped his hand, staring downwards, like it was easier to face smears of lentil than Clint at that moment. And maybe it was-- Clint wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but it felt all kind of drawn and sad. He knew from experience that other people's’ sympathy could be wounding.

At last, Phil started up again, sounding like he was dragging the words up past some kind of blockage in his heart.

“But you know how I said my mother never recovered after Dad died? She kind of… drifted through life? And then, of course,  _ she _ died?”

“I remember.” Clint managed, tightening his hold on Phil’s hand again, and wondering how much more he could go on tightening before he broke a phalange. 

“That’s… honestly, they’re the only formative experience I had with… relationships. Or romantic love. I think I told you that, that night in the tree. Or maybe I half did. I think deep down I was always afraid that if I ever if I ever came to depend on someone… well. I’d end up like my mother.”

“Yeah well, I understand  _ that, _ ” Clint told him, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat and the memories flooding him of every time he’d yelled at Bobbi, or been yelled at, and the sick dread that would hit him. “You have no idea how much I used to wonder whether I’d end up like my mother, getting beat, or… or like my Dad. Point it… I get the fear.” 

“Jesus, Clint,” Phil said, dropping the injera confetti to reach out and caress Clint’s cheek with his thumb, like he was looking for the prints of phantom fists decades after.

“Yeah, well,” Clint shrugged, feeling belatedly nervous about the revelation. “It’s old news now. I don’t wanna derail the conversation. But.”

Right.  _ But _ . His divorce had been shit, but ultimately it had been his own shit, not his parents. Maybe it was easier, having lost them young-- maybe Barney was more haunted by those ghosts than he was. Or maybe he and Barney’d managed somehow to exorcise each other. And it was suddenly really, breathtakingly important to him that Phil knew it was possible. He swallowed hard, and continued.

“But I guess I haven’t turned into my parents yet, and I’ve had time to find out. I mean, my marriage sucked, but at least I made my own mistakes. And I’ll probably make more-- I mean, I’ve  _ been _ making more, but. I think that’s kind of life?”

That… hadn’t come out quite as reassuring as he’d meant it to. Clint bit his lip, suddenly unable to meet Phil’s glance, but equally unable to look away, as he waited for Phil to digest it. He ended up splitting the difference and going a little cross-eyed concentrating on Phil’s nose.

Phil was silent for a long moment, and Clint could feel his gaze. At last he sighed, and when he spoke it was soft and hesitant.

“You know, you amaze me sometimes? No, you do--” his voice turned vehement at Clint’s instinctive protest. “That’s not easy, Clint. Being afraid, assuming you’re going to screw up but going and… and falling in love anyway. I… think that’s the difference between us. You had relationships, screwed up, learned from it, I assume. I… well, I never had a reason to test that. Until… well, until you.”

“Oh.”

Clint wondered if he looked as gobsmacked as he sounded, to his own ears. He’d known Phil didn’t do relationships, he’d known Phil hadn’t fallen in love often, but somehow he hadn’t fully realized that he— Clint Barton— was somehow Phil’s  _ first _ love. First adult love, anyway— maybe there’d been someone back before his Mom died. But, basically, Phil’d made it past 40 without falling, and then along came Clint and boom. Phil was right. That was pretty damn terrifying. But also:

“I’m sorry too, then,” Clint said. “You must have been so lonely. And you don’t…. It’s not…” he broke off, because he’d choked up too much to force out  _ it’s not what you deserve _ without swallowing first.

“I know it’s not healthy,” Phil told him wryly. “The panic attack clued me in to that. Basically, it was a… it was the fight part of a fight-or-flight response.”

Clint winced, because as understandable as that was? The idea of living with a man who was terrified of the fact that he was in love was… not appealing. He thought Phil caught that; there was sympathy in the half-smile he shot Clint, in the squeeze he gave their joined hands.

“I agree. That’s why I called Andrew.”

Andrew? Clint shot him a  _ context please _ look.

“Melinda’s husband Andrew. Garner,” Phil clarified. “He’s a psychiatrist.”

“Yeah, I, uh, recognize the last name.” In fact, it was the same name that appeared on his outpatient care schedule, since SHIELD apparently didn’t trust him to deal with the aftermath of being mind-controlled on his own. (SHIELD was probably smart not to;  _ Clint _ didn’t trust himself to do that, and Clint had long ago decided shrinks were more trouble than they were worth. He was rapidly reevaluating that sentiment.)

“Andrew’s… a good guy,” Phil told him, then laughed at what seemed like a private joke. “A remarkably patient guy. And… well, as little as I really wanted to talk about it, if I couldn’t control my reactions enough to not hurt you, that wasn’t acceptable. So, I called him. We’ve been talking.”

“’Talking,’ as in— more than once?” Clint blinked, trying to figure out if he’d been in a time warp or something. “You’ve been back less than a week.”

“Oh, I called from Driftless, while you were still in the ICU. Hell, I nearly called from our apartment, after I’d finished cleaning up the bacon. We talked a couple times while I was there, a few times now I’ve been back.”

“That’s… a lot of talking.” It was an understatement-- that had to be like, the therapy equivalent of going from zero to outer space. Clint was finding it a little hard to assimilate. He swallowed the last of his wine, trying to keep himself from saying more, from breaking the flow of Phil’s confession.

“Well, if I’m going to be in love with you-- and I don’t see that changing… ever-- I’m damn well not going to go through the rest of my life terrified and taking it out on you,” Phil said. “So I’m working on it.” 

His face was, oddly, lighter than his words, like he found himself funny, and his eyes had gone all crinkly at the corners. It was the most  _ Phil _ Clint thought he’d ever seen Phil be, and it made his heart stutter.

“I don’t…” Clint shook his head, trying to stop the quick prickle of tears that had somehow ambushed him, “I don’t think anyone’s ever… I don’t think anyone’s ever done something like that for me, before.”

Jeez, now he was the one who sounded like a soap opera. He grimaced. Which Phil apparently took wrong— his hand spasmed in Clint’s.

“It wasn’t for you. I mean—” Phil bit his lip, then started over. “I mean, it was for you, but also for me. Honestly, Clint, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t mean anything.” He said it earnestly, like he was reassuring Clint the rope would hold his weight if he just came  _ right now _ . (The rope, as it happened, had-- mostly.)

Clint felt his eyebrows rise. He wasn’t usually an eyebrow-raiser— that was more of a Phil thing. Or a Nat thing. Or a Director Fury thing. But if ever a situation had called for a raised brow, this one did. It worked about as well on Phil as it did when Phil or Nat or Fury did it to him. Phil went red— redder— and dropped his forehead into his free hand.

“Fuck, I can’t stop tripping over my tongue with you,” he sighed.

“It’s kinda cute,” Clint told him, because it was, and it couldn’t hurt to say. Honestly, it had been cute since the first time Clint’d met  _ Phil _ , not Coulson, in their bedroom in Driftless, all blushing and shirtless. 

Had Sitwell ever gotten to see Phil like this? Had  _ May _ ? Given how lonely Phil’d just implied his personal life had been all these years, had anyone ever really, fully seen Phil except his cat? Was this Phil, this earnest, fumbling, frustrating Phil, really only Clint’s? 

That… that needed some thought. Which Clint didn’t have time for, because Phil was watching him again, caught between shock and bewilderment. He seemed to be waiting to see if Clint was going to elaborate. Clint had no idea where to go from there, so he settled for a shrug. Phil snorted.

“Well, I’m glad you appreciate it, anyway— can’t say I’m enjoying the feeling. No, what I was trying to say before I nearly ate my own foot, was that… that I don’t expect anything from you, Clint.” And goddamnit, Clint’d forgotten to be wary, there, and let himself meet Phil’s gaze and now it’d turned deep and sincere again and he was trapped. Trapped and breathless, as Phil continued, measuring each word as if he were learning it just before he said it.

“I… remember what you said to me, about not wanting a relationship, and I’m not trying to make you feel… obligated, for lack of a better word… just because I started therapy. Or… or because I love you, even. This is… I would need to do this no matter what we… no matter what happens with us.”

“I see,” Clint said, feeling like he’d never balanced two words so carefully before. He  _ did _ see, because it was so Phil, that once he’d found the root of a problem— any problem— he’d go after it ruthlessly. But also because “no matter what happens with us” certainly didn’t sound like “I don’t want a relationship.” And,  _ and _ , because Phil clearly remembered how much Clint didn’t want to make the same mistakes he’d made before, and just follow the leader straight into a bed, or a house, or a marriage— or  _ away _ from one, either.

One of these days, Clint might stop being shocked each time fell even more in love with Phil, after thinking he was already completely gone. One of these days, maybe, but not today— it took him a long moment to start breathing again and try to find his voice. He passed the time by stroking Phil’s hand with his thumb, trying to soothe them both, trying to reassure Phil that his silence wasn’t anything bad.

Phil waited with him, looking calmer and more certain now that he had his speech out. At last, when Clint still hadn’t found any other words than “I see,” he pulled away a little, to look at the soggy remains of the deluxe sampler platter they’d effectively demolished.

“Are we finished, or do you want more?” he asked.

Clint surveyed the carnage, while trying to switch mental tracks.

“I don’t think there’s any more  _ to  _ have, unless I lick the box,” he said. “Um, can I help you clean up the bodies?”

Phil nodded, and so they did. Clint followed Phil into the kitchen and handed him the empty containers to stuff into the trash, while he looked around. The kitchen was as clearly pre-furnished as the rest of the apartment. The decor tended towards mid-century colonial in dark fabrics that hid stains well, and non-porous surfaces that Clint strongly suspected had been chosen by the landlord with the needs of spies in mind. The whole effect was more homey than Clint had expected-- and obviously a lot less exposed than their place in Driftless had been. The kitchen island would easily give Phil cover, and the appliances were arranged so that he never had to have his back to the door, if he didn’t want. 

It was a place a paranoid intelligence agent could feel safe, long-term. And Phil seemed at home enough in it, though when he opened the fridge to put away the dregs of the riesling, Clint realized it was mostly empty. 

“I knew you’d been busy, but you haven’t even had a chance to get  _ groceries _ ?” Clint asked, startled out of his silence.

Phil grimaced, and shut the door as he turned.

“It hasn’t exactly been a top priority. But— truth be told, it’s usually not that much better. I don’t do that much cooking, at home.”

Clint felt as dumbstruck as he had on learning that chard both existed and was a separate, distinct leaf from kale. 

“So, uh— kohlrabi?” he asked, “kale? Quinoa?”

At least Phil had the grace to look ashamed at that, as he dried his hands on a dish towel then leaned on the counter.

“I know  _ how _ to cook,” he said, blushing. “I can cook. There’s just not a lot of time for it and not a lot of point, cooking just for myself. I tend to go for stuff with a long shelf-life.”

“That’s too bad,” Clint said, “you seemed to really like it, in Driftless.”

“I did, but I had time and a partner. It’s different,” Phil said, smiling a truly unfair little smile. “And you’re fun to cook with.”

“You’re fun to live with,” Clint blurted out, then raised his hand instinctively to slap it over his mouth. He managed to convert it to a back-of-the-neck rub at the last moment. It was  _ true _ , he didn’t need to be ashamed of it. The effect of his words on Phil was electric. He blushed right to the tips of his ears, and his face glowed.

“Really?” he asked, like he’d just been told Captain America’d been found alive.

“Yeah really,” Clint said, feeling lighter than he had all evening. “I mean, I thought that was pretty clear? If nothing else, didn’t I yell it at you, when we were fighting?” He paused, wondering whether go further. 

On the one hand, it felt like they’d already talked for ages, and it was getting real hard to keep from going woozy with all the crashing emotions. On the other, if he really didn’t want to just follow Phil’s lead, whether it was into his bed or out of his life, he needed to speak up. So he swallowed hard, and kept going.

“I gotta say, you didn’t seem happy about it at the time. How’re you doing now?”

“Now?” Phil didn’t sound confused so much as… questioning, double-checking whether Clint really wanted to go there, maybe. Clint forced himself to meet Phil’s eyes, despite the fact that he really wanted to duck behind the island and take cover, himself.  

“Now,” He confirmed, gulping. “I mean, I think I kinda know, since I’m here instead of meeting you at O’Thirsty’s or something. But… does the idea of me being in your life still scare you?”

There. He’d asked. And Phil could read whatever he wanted into the question— as far as Clint could tell, it’d all be true. He waited for the response.

Phil shifted, regarding him closely, almost like he was testing a theory. Clint tried to make himself look as determined, as capable of handling an adult conversation, as possible.

“I’m… not sure,” Phil said at last. “I like  _ seeing _ you here. Standing in my kitchen doorway, I mean. Even though you’re kind of glaring at me.”

Oops.  _ Too _ determined.

“Sorry! I’m just— I mean, I’m not mad or anything, I’m just—”

“Focused,” Phil finished for him. “I know. That’s one expression of yours I’ve got figured out.” 

Which was more than Bobbi had managed, Clint thought, and just barely managed not to say so, converting it at the last minute into a strangled “oh, good” instead. Maybe Phil heard an echo of it, though, because his face went kind of twisty, amused but with some kind of spark Clint couldn’t identify beneath it. He pushed off the counter and started towards Clint, slowly, talking as he went.

“I’m all right now, obviously. But I’m not sure how much of that is left over relief that you’re alive and… I can’t guarantee that I won’t freak out on you again. I mean, obviously I’ll try not to, and Andrew has all these exercises and I’ve looked up a couple books but… I’m told this kind of thing takes time.” He  sounded offended by that, like someone’d fed him dubious intelligence or he had Polite Concerns about an Ops Commander. “And… sometimes there are setbacks,” he finished.

All of which was probably true— truer than Phil wanted to admit, anyway— but still talking around the question. And Clint was already exhausted, and his painkillers were starting to wear off, and this was exactly the kind of conversation that could give a guy a traumatic brain injury who didn’t already have one. He decided to cut to the chase.

“But do you want to try?” Clint said, aware his voice was coming out shaky. He was also aware that if Phil turned the question around, he  _ still _ didn’t have a sure answer. Phil didn’t ask, though, he just stood a little ways away from Clint, nearly within reaching distance, arms crossed, and  _ looked _ . It started off fairly assessing, like he wasn’t sure what Clint’s angle was, but the longer the look went on, the softer and softer it got, until it was almost hopelessly fond. 

Clint tried not to fidget, but his fingers curled slowly up into his palms, and he realized his thumbnails had started digging into his index fingers. He unclenched his hands and whipped them behind his back— then felt stupid, standing at attention in a cluttered kitchen while he waited for what suddenly felt like the most important answer in his life.

“When you were in the hospital,” Phil said at last, his voice rough, “Natasha asked me something… similar. About you and me. I couldn’t answer it then— and I guess I still can’t. Alone, anyway. It… feels  more like something  _ we _ need to answer, together. Which… I guess is what this conversation is, sorry— I’m not at my most eloquent tonight. What I mean is, I don’t have an answer to that separate from yours.”

Forget standing at attention, Clint needed something stable to lean on, until his knees could support him. Or else he needed to go wipe that open, raw look off Phil’s face and replace it with his own lips. 

It was a really tempting option; Phil’s lips were red from the nervous nibbling he’d been doing all during the conversation, and he looked both stupidly handsome and kind of hapless. Clint’d never had defenses against that. 

But he chose the other option, leaning hard against the counter next to him, so he could go to jelly without falling over and bonking his head. Because he’d been in Phil’s place before, waiting to see what the person he loved wanted. Trying to live up to whatever they saw in him. And the last thing he wanted was to be Phil’s Bobbi.

Wait— no. That wasn’t what Phil was doing, was it? All that time at Driftless, he’d followed Clint’s lead. Not always easily, no, and not always without stale cupcakes or burnt kale or other assorted drama. But maybe the stale cupcakes were the point. Because a Phil would could insist on kohlrabi wasn’t a Phil who was going to let himself get lost in Clint’s desires,  _ or _ give up when he thought he couldn’t live up to them. 

What Phil was offering, if Clint understood him right, was partnership. No— what he was saying was that they  _ already had _ a partnership. Which, given the way they’d behaved in their briefing that afternoon, and then in the utility closet, Clint wouldn’t really argue with. They hadn’t been perfectly in sync or reading each other’s minds, but they  _ had _ had exactly the same objectives, and they’d definitely been working as a team. That was, somehow, fundamentally different than just being in a relationship. 

In fact, it was even scarier. There wasn’t any place to hide, no room to let the other person take all the blame. Clint wondered if Phil knew that. If that was why he was so damn scared, because he’d seen his parents lose  _ that _ . Well, of course it was— and that was why Phil’d gone to Andrew Garner. Because he might be scared, but he’d never been a coward.

Clint’d never particularly been one either. And also, as it turned out, there was no answer for him, separate from Phil’s. He levered himself upright and uncrossed his own arms.

“Look,” he said, “there’s no reason we have to decide everything tonight, right? I mean… no one has to propose or move in or anything drastic. We could… go slow. Take some time to gather intel. Make sure Driftless would work in DC.”

“What,” Phil asked, blinking, “like, date?” 

He didn’t seem opposed, or disappointed, just curious.

“I guess?” Clint said, feeling it out as he spoke. “I mean, I’ve never really  _ done _ the dating thing, so I don’t really know how it’s supposed to go. And we already know each other, but I guess… you said you have a lot to work out, and frankly I could stand to work on my shit and anyway my head’s a general mess, so I think this’d go better if we just… let it be what it’s gonna be? I mean, we already know we love each other, right? So that’s not a question. The rest is… logistics.”

He realized he’d been walking forward as he talked, because the kind of spirally complex gesture he ended with nearly hit Phil in the chest. Phil looked down at Clint’s hands, then up.

“Logistics,” he repeated, rolling the word around like he was trying to get the mouthfeel of it or some other wine thing like that. He uncrossed his own arms, looking at Clint speculatively. “I’m pretty good with those.”

“You’re fucking unparalleled with those,” Clint told him. A smile was starting at the corner of his mouth; he could feel it tug. He took another step forward.

“I’m okay with those; Jasper’s the one who’s unparalleled. I’m more of the strategy and tactics guy,” Phil told him, starting to smile himself.

“You know what I mean,” Clint grumped, and that won him an actual chuckle.

“I do. So.” Phil finally took a step forward himself, a step that took him right into Clint’s personal space and so close Clint could practically feel him breathe. “Out of curiosity, how do you think kissing fits into this? Logistically speaking?”

“Um… I think we could safely deploy it right about now,” Clint told him. He was lying through his teeth-- there was nothing safe about the way his heart had just kicked into double-time, and his nurses back at Driftless would have agreed. He was glad they were half a continent away. 

So there, in the middle of Phil’s kitchen, their feet crunching on fallen post-its, they kissed each other for the first time, again. It was a soft kiss, with none of the urgency or showmanship of the one on the darkened paths at Driftless. Just two sets of lips, meeting, meeting again, warm and welcoming and still a little tentative. Phil’s hands came up to grip Clint’s arms and pull him closer, as Clint tugged him in by the hips. And for a few long moments Clint’s aches, bruises, and the fears that crowded at the edges of his thoughts all faded out. They were still there, but they didn’t matter.

Only Phil mattered, and how sweet his lips were, how addictive his little murmurs and sighs were. How he made Clint feel warm in every inch of his own body, all the way down to his poor, abused toes. 

Eventually, they drew back a little. It was either that or go from kissing to groping and that didn’t exactly feel “slow.” Clint didn’t really want to put more pressure on their tentative agreement, and from the way his hands stayed right above Clint’s ass, Phil seemed to agree. 

(Anyway, they already knew the sex worked-- and so did half their neighbors.)

“Mmm,” Clint said, because at some point in the process, he’d apparently lost all his words.

“Mmm, indeed,” Phil agreed, one hand still cupping his cheek, one thumb still stroking his cheek softly. “I could do that for hours.”

“But maybe not tonight,” Clint told him, because now that he wasn’t being actively drugged by Phil’s lips, exhaustion was starting to creep back in. “’Cause I don’t think I have hours left ‘till I collapse.”

“No, I bet you don’t,” Phil said, looking him over critically. “Do you want to table the work talk until later, and I’ll just take you home?”

“I can bus,” Clint said. “It’s not a problem.”

“It’s close to ten, and you live how far away?”

“Barry Farms,” Clint shrugged, waiting to see if Phil winced at that, like the stupid SHIELD drivers did.

“So… two transfers away?” Phil asked skeptically, but showing no signs of being wary of Clint’s neighborhood. “And I’ve already kept you up way later than someone who just got out of the hospital yesterday and flew back this morning should be up. We’ll drive.”

Clint vaguely felt like he should protest more, but honestly just the thought of waiting at L’Enfant Plaza at that time of night was draining.

“Then take me home, Mr. Moore,” he said, and looped his arm through Phil’s.

“Sure thing, Indy,” Phil grinned at him. “Just let me grab my keys.”

####

Phil was elbow-deep in boxes when Clint texted him the next day.

_ Want to take a walk today and talk about that thing? _

_ I’m at work _ , Phil texted back, then stood up and stretched his aching back, peeking out over the mountain of boxes, shipping crates, and tupperware that formed the contents of the Dugan archive, now safely nestled in a corner of one of SHIELD’s secure, climate-controlled warehouses deep underneath the Triskelion. The walls stretched high above him, the shelves obscured his view, and he shook away a flashback to the now-inaccessible archaeology storage room under Forkenbrock. 

(Parts of its contents were in a nearby secure storage room, under the purview of Elena and Jones. Phil was pathetically glad he wasn’t sharing space with any of it.)

_ But its saturday _ , Clint responded, and Phil could almost hear the offended tone of his voice.  _ You were just on a mission. Even Fury cant be that hardassed _

_ He’s not. I’m sorting the Dugan archives. They’re a mess. _

It was true— SHIELD had prioritized speed over a clear inventory when transporting the archives to such an extent that they’d pretty much ignored it entirely. He knew Jasper had still been using his junior agents at that point, but surely  _ one _ of them must have grasped, if dimly, the concept of inventory control? Lacking Jeffrey or Phyl, Phil himself was the only one who knew exactly what should be on the inventory list, and he was desperate to get everything properly cataloged and triple-checked. Because if there was something buried in those boxes and crates that their mole wanted, Phil didn’t want it disappearing before he knew it was there. Assuming it hadn’t already disappeared, of course. Assuming it had ever made it to SHIELD. And if either Pierce or Jasper were the mole, Phil wouldn’t bet on that.

But he might, like Clint with the Temple B artifacts, be able to spot the thing that wasn’t there. That was why he’d spent precious long hours buried in the warehouse the last few days, every minute he wasn’t in meetings or giving yet more detailed debriefs in progressively more secure locations. It certainly wasn’t for his health, or peace of mind.

_ Oh so its more play than work _ Clint texted, and Phil snorted. Sure, for Clint maybe. Well— maybe not anymore.

_ It wld feel more like play if the cataloging weren’t fucked. I miss you. _

Phil’s thumb twitched with the urgent need to add something, to deflect. Something about Clint’s expertise, or strong arms— all right, that might not deflect the awkwardness so much as redirect it. He put the phone down. Let the text stand on its own. He wasn’t nervous. And even if he  _ was,  _ if he couldn’t handle a mushy text, he couldn’t handle Clint.

_ Aw babe you only want me for my mad cataloging skillz _

See,when  _ Clint _ said it, it sounded like a come-on, rather than a retreat. 

_ Of course not. Plenty of heavy crates left to open.  _

After he hit send, Phil realized he was grinning stupidly down at his phone. Dear god, they were flirting. Not… not that Phil hadn’t flirted before. But it had usually been either just to pass the time, or with the explicit purpose of getting someone in bed. (Or for an op, obviously.) This felt different.

Daring.

_ Oh I see. You like my arms too. _

_ I might be a bit partial _ , Phil sent, then frowned. Was that stand-offish? Was he heading back into Deflection Territory? 

_ But honestly I want you for your brain  _ he added, in a flurry of thumbing, hit send, and then re-read what he’d written. And went to bang his head on the nearest shelving support strut. He was hopeless at this.

His phone buzzed.

_ Aw Mr Moore,  _ Clint had sent. Phil wasn’t sure what to make of that— he’d said nearly the same thing last night as they’d left Phil’s apartment, and Phil had responded, instinctively, with “Indy.” Given how intent Clint had been on making a distinction between Driftless and DC, why did he keep using that name? Was he still maybe struggling, too, to define their new boundaries? “Mr. Moore” was always how Clint had underlined for Phil that he was putting on an act, after all.

Except… he’d never  _ been _ putting on an act, as it turned out. Huh, again. Before Phil could think of a response, Clint sent again.

_ Srsly tho you want my help? I can head down _

_ You’re on light duty. And its Saturday. _

_ PT waits for no weekends im at bethesda. youre on my way home _

Phil didn’t have to debate his answer.

_ Only if you let me make you dinner after. Then we can take that walk. _

_ Ive seen your fridge remember? We can pick it up _

Phil did indeed remember, and he also remembered how disappointed Clint had been to realize he barely cooked, at home. 

_ I haven’t been here all day. I went shopping. I’ve got kale. _

A lot of it, in fact, and he had blushed all the way through the check-out line, severely confusing the clerk. But it was worth it for the vindication he felt when Clint responded:

_ Cant say no to kale. Ill be there in 15. _

Clint was indeed over in fifteen, though when Phil saw him, he regretted asking him to come. 

“Um, rough PT or rough night?” he asked, after they’d separated from an unexpectedly lingering hello kiss.

“Six of one,” Clint shrugged, then winced at the movement. When he looked up at Phil, though, his expression was nothing but happy. “But you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Literally, it looked like, from their red rims and deep shadows. But if Clint didn’t want to talk about it, Phil wasn’t going to make him. Anyway, there wasn’t much he could say on the subject— he’d only slept about four hours the night before, though it was the single-longest stretch he’d managed since he’d come back from Driftless. Apparently, he and Clint were in the same boat.

“Well, as much as I enjoy the opportunity to ogle your strong arms, I think we can leave the boxes for later”— as in, when Phil could do them in privacy so Clint couldn’t re-injure himself— “and right now you can pull up a crate, have a seat, and critique SHIELD’s tracking system. Here’s the inventory. It’s fucked.”

Clint took the tablet from him solemnly, and sat down as requested.

“Wonder how Burgoyne’d like seeing you call me a cataloging expert, here,” he said idly.

Phil wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he settled for a quick squeeze of Clint’s shoulder before he got back to work. Over the course of the afternoon, he unpacked boxes and held up pins, patches, dispatches, and blasting caps for Clint’s inspection. Clint cross-checked them against SHIELD’s inventory and Jeffrey’s, and cursed a lot. It was a quiet, companionable time, and Phil could probably have spent all night down in the warehouse, now that Clint had chased away the lingering ghosts.

But Clint definitely didn’t have that kind of endurance, and Phil’s own back betrayed him, so they did eventually make their way back to his apartment for dinner. Clint’d promised to help cook, and to give Phil a backrub afterwards, which Phil was looking forward to a little pathetically. But when he came out of his bedroom after changing, he found the Jayhawks playing on the stereo, a bag of kale sitting on the kitchen counter, and Clint sacked out on his couch, the drool at the corner of his mouth gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Phil closed the blinds, draped a cotton blanket over Clint’s bare feet, and reached down to brush the drool from his cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words still sitting spiky on his tongue, but less so each time he said them. He went to make dinner.

####

“Is it safe to talk about work now?” Clint asked as they wandered beneath the willow oaks in the pocket park near Phil’s home. “Because I don’t want to be out longer than we have to be. I’d forgotten how much DC summers suck. I’m about to sweat through my shorts.” 

The humidity had slammed down on him as they’d left Phil’s place, and the evening air was filled with the lingering scream of cicadas. It was better than fishflies, but only by a very little. As Clint had that thought, his foot hit something that crunched. 

So much for  _ better than fishflies _ .  

He was way more exhausted than he wanted to let on. Sleep had been nearly non-existent after Phil brought him home last night; each creak in his old apartment became someone sneaking up behind him, and Hervey’s eyes gleamed from the brake lights of every passing car. His neighborhood’s night sounds had always given him the comfortable feeling of hive activity— slamming car doors, the rattling bass of hip-hop from a stereo, the chatter of neighbors coming home from the second shift or leaving for the third. But last night, they’d turned ominous, like the echoes of a mob outside his door. 

He’d finally unwound enough that afternoon in Phil’s comfortable, safe apartment, enough for sleep to ambush him. But that nap wasn’t going to last him much longer, and he knew he needed to hear this now. He sighed.

Phil’s hand tightened in his, soothingly, and Clint squeezed back. 

He wasn’t sure when in the walk they’d started holding hands, but he filed it under “let it be what it’s gonna be” and didn’t mention it.

“I think it’s safe,” Phil said, in reply to his question. “You’re the one who was worried about the cleanliness of my apartment. Natasha briefed you on the mole?”

“Yeah she did. And I agreed with your analysis; Burgoyne called me Agent Barton just before she whammied me, so she clearly knew who we were. So. Suspects?”

Phil looked over at him with that calculating look Clint’d gotten used to over the course of their ops,  the  _ how do I arrange the information _ look.

“Who would you guess? If you had to guess?” he asked.

Clint considered. He  _ had _ guesses— he’d had them ever since Natasha’d told him. They just seemed absurd. Then again, Phil was rubbing his thumb against Clint’s hand again, like a worry stone. So maybe he was right.

“Well first of all, I think maybe there’s more than one— like, whoever was in Guatemala doesn’t have to be the same as the one who sold us out. In fact, I’d bet on it. So that’s fun. But you’re talking about whoever outed us. Milo was acting squirrely on the 4th, so I’m gonna guess he knew they had something planned for us and couldn’t come out and say it, because of the… the mind control. So whoever outed us, they did it between the banquet and the 4th. The timing… I mean, the obvious suspects here are Jasper Sitwell and Alexander Pierce. But  _ Phil _ ….”

Either option was… chilling. He’d never hoped so much to be told he was wrong, it was impossible, he’d forgotten one key point.

“I know. Oh, I know,” Phil said instead. “But that’s the conclusion I came to, too. And you’re right about there being more than one. Jones identified Pierce as the person who came to Guatemala to help with the embassy, but that was after Magnos had left. So….” 

“And Sitwell wasn’t the guy in her room, since Magnos’ll would’ve flagged that already. So at least two, potentially three, if it’s Sitwell  _ and _ Pierce—”

“I knew you could make this worse,” Phil sighed. “Yeah, exactly.”

“And either your friend or Fury’s or both ratted us out. Great. Does Magnos know Sitwell’s a suspect, by the way? I mean— Fury assigned them together, and you’d have told me straight up if he’d been cleared.”

“He hasn’t, unfortunately. Fury knows what I know, this is his play.”

“Oh, so, what? Put Sitwell on the investigation so he doesn’t suspect we suspect, give him the rope to hang himself, if it’s him, and use Magnos as bait?”

“I assume so,” Phil said, reaching up and whapping a low-hanging branch out of their way as they passed. Something dark plopped out of it, narrowly missing Clint and scuttling off when it hit the path. “It’d be classic Nick. I just… I may be too sentimental, Clint, but I just… I just don’t think it’s Jasper. Then again, that means it  _ has _ to be Pierce, and… that’s terrifying. They’re both plausible. Elena and I talked extensively; she agrees on the possibilities but doesn’t have more information. Pierce being in Guatemala would be natural, given the SHIELD connections and his friendships with Burgoyne and Santander. And Jasper’s the best patsy we have. If anyone could get past my defenses… I wouldn’t bet against him, let’s just say.”

No wonder Phil looked like he hadn’t slept either; what a nightmare scenario. Clint didn’t  _ want _ Phil’s friend to be the mole, but the alternative was a man whose ties to SHIELD were deep and wide. 

“Pierce came to visit while I was sedated,” Clint said quietly, “you didn’t let him sit with me. Why?”

Phil’s reaction was startling— he blushed, visible even in the fading light, and ducked his head.

“Partly, I didn’t want to leave you. Not so soon after… after getting you back. And then partly… this is going to sound stupid.”

“I doubt it.”

“I had… I had a bad dream,” Phil said. “About him. While I was sitting next to you, just before he came in. I guess I was subconsciously still feeling protective.”

_ A bad dream _ . 

The night before, Clint had collapsed at last, only to jolt awake from a nightmare of being lost in tunnels that led under the Triskelion, trying to find Phil in time to warn him there was a mole— and discovered too late, when his hands wrapped around Phil’s neck, that it was him. After that he’d stayed up and texted Natasha, who’d just departed on a Fury-directed mission to the Balkans. And then Phil’d texted that he was in fact  _ in _ vaults beneath the Triskelion, and there was no way Clint was going to leave him there alone. He wondered if Phil’s dreams were as terrible as that.

“Didn’t you have another dream about him?” Clint asked, rather than go down that path.

“Ugh yes,” Phil responded, making a face, “but I’m not basing a mole hunt on my subconscious insecurities.”

“Why not? I’ve heard worse. But okay, okay. Two suspects we know of. Maybe more to come. And for now Magnos watches, and we try and find the mole’s tracks, right? Is that us? Magnos keeps an eye on Sitwell and investigates her own attempted murder, and you and I see if the mole fiddled with the clean up— or tries to now?”

“Yep,” Phil said.

“And I so wanted this mission to be over,” Clint sighed. “After everything we went through, it feels like it should be time to debrief and get back to, I dunno, normal SHIELD things. Well, I guess this way you’ve got another chance to finish your dissertation, huh?”

“There is that,” Phil demurred. “There is that.”

What was intended to be a last goodnight at Phil’s door turned into Clint renewing his offer of a backrub, during which Clint realized that if Phil had never dated, Phil probably hadn’t gotten used to being touched with care but without sexy intent. So the backrub turned into cuddling on the couch, because Phil damn well deserved cuddling, and apparently trusted Clint to give it to him.

Sometime later, Clint woke up to a congested rumble and snort, to find that they’d somehow slipped sideways and Phil’s head had come to rest in his lap. Unfortunately, he’d also started snoring like a drunk elephant. Clint had nearly convinced himself it was safe to remove his ears so that the snore wouldn’t bother him, when Phil stopped breathing. Then he snorted and choked, and settled back down.

“Yeah,” Clint said firmly, jostling Phil, “no way I’m going to be able to sleep with  _ that _ going on. C’mon Phil, wake up.”

“Hrngh?” Phil said, turning bleary eyes on him and looking, if anything, impossibly cuter than he had before. “Clin’?”

“It’s late, babe,” Clint said gently, “and you need to go to bed. And I—” it was on the tip of his tongue to say he’d go with, but it felt too heavy for the moment. Too likely to scare Phil or lead to himself never leaving. “I need to get home.”

“Home.” Phil frowned, then sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You gonna be okay to do that?”

“Yeah, it’s not as late as it— jeez, it  _ is _ as late as it looks. We must’ve been a sleep a few hours. But I’ll be fine. I love the Metro this time of night. Promise. Let’s get you to bed.”

Phil looked at him closely, then nodded and stood up.

“It’s the snoring, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It’s the not breathing, darling. I’ll text you when I get home, okay? But I hope you won’t be awake.”

“Kay, Indy,” Phil told him. They’d reached the door, and Phil fumbled to open it, then laid one hand on Clint’s arm as he prepared to go. “Love you,” he aid, and kissed Clint quickly. “Be safe.”

“Yeah, I… I will,” Clint told him, feeling dazed, and went home.

####

Clint couldn’t vouch for whether Phil’d managed to get sleep Saturday night, but he certainly hadn’t. By four AM, he’d given up and gotten up, finally getting around to putting away the last of his luggage from Driftless, putting away the now-dry underwear hanging over his shower rod, and heading for the 24-hour laundromat with the rest. Dawn found him working his PT-approved exercise while leaning over an industrial-size dryer. Noon found him with a spotless apartment and a restless heart— and already sporadically texting Phil. 

He nearly invited himself over. In fact, he had the text ready to go and his thumb was hovering over  _ send _ \-- and then he paused. They were never going to find out if they were compatible in DC if he just kept behaving like it was Driftless, playing Phil’s records and eating his food. Also, Phil still needed to work on Chapter 4 of his dissertation, and Clint would just end up distracting him.

So he set off with Missouri Jones on a search for “that one ice cream place off Four Mile Run” that she remembered dimly from a conference on NAGPRA a decade past. 

“Hey, this isn’t that far from Phil’s place,” Clint said as they turned into the parking lot of a run-down one-story brick building with faded signs at least fifty years old in the windows. 

“Tell him to meet us, then?” Jones said, getting out of the car and stretching.

“Can’t,” Clint shrugged. “He’s out catching up with a friend.”

_ Dissertation won’t flow. Going to visit Jasper. And my ex-cat _ , he’d texted, in fact.

“Must be nice being home.” Jones pulled the door open, and so missed Clint’s little wince. He was trying not to be nervous about the idea of Phil alone in the house of a man who’d potentially betrayed them. Which, when he thought about it, included the whole of the Triskelion, and that wasn’t nerve-wracking at all. He wondered how Jones was handling it with Magnos, and wasn’t sure how to ask.

“You’ve been weirdly quiet,” Jones said, when they were finally ensconced on a battered bench outside the shop, eating ice cream. “Want to talk about it, or ignore it?”

“You’d actually listen?” Clint asked, startled. “Sorry, that sounded bad. I meant—”

“Well I’m not your professor anymore,” Jones shrugged, then paused to lick around the edge of her lemon ice cream, neatly cutting off several incipient drips. “So I don’t feel like I have to maintain a professional distance. And I do know what happened in Driftless, and there are maybe five of us who can say that. So I thought I’d offer. You don’t need to take me up on it.”

Clint turned his cone around, examining from every side to see which was in the most danger, before deciding to lick carefully all around the seam where ice cream met sugar cone. Jones snorted.

“It’s weird,” Clint said at last. “Usually, it feels the same when I come home. Doesn’t this time. Part of that’s Phil I guess— I mean, we got all unsettled at Driftless, and kinda gotta negotiate new… whatevers. But mostly, DC looks… different, now. SHIELD looks different.”

Jasper Sitwell looked different, and Phil was over there, pretending he wasn’t. Alexander Pierce looked different, and Fury was pretending  _ he _ didn’t. Hell, even  _ Nat _ looked different, though only more awesome, not mole-like.

“ _ Ah _ ,” Jones said, and Clint remembered Magnos had told her about the mole. She leaned back against the wall and directed her gaze to the cars zipping by on the Pike. “Yes, Elena said the same thing. She seems relieved to be back in SHIELD’s care, though— which I’m not. But then, I don’t know anything about her co-workers or this academy she talks about. I don’t know how safe she is with them. I just don’t want her falling off any more damn cliffs.”

“If it helps any, that was all Tess. I don’t think the… I don’t think Tess knew there was backing Burgoyne wasn’t telling her about.”

“That… doesn’t help, Ford. Barton. Clint.”

Clint shrugged.

“It’s all I’ve got. Except, far as I can tell she’s got great instincts. And I don’t think the Director would put her into a position that’s knowingly unsafe.”

“Yeah, his track record’s great with that,” Jones snapped, then crunched down on the last of her sugar cone like she was crunching on Fury’s head. “Seriously, Clint, she’s got less survival instincts than Merlin. Or… or you. I just want her to come back to Driftless. Finish her sabbatical or… or just quit SHIELD and come to where its… well, not safe. To where I can look after her.”

“Does… she want that?” Clint asked.

“Maybe after she’s finished with this… project, she says. And then she and Bent disappear for hours into a lab with some kind of mass spectrometry thing and state-of-the-art air filtration systems. I can’t compete with that.” She flung her wadded-up napkin into the trash on the other side of the door.

“Ah, SHIELD’s golden handcuffs, yeah I remember those,” Clint said, judging his shot then caroming his own napkin off the column in front of them, off the awning, and down into the trash. Jones followed its trajectory, and snorted when it hit. “Be careful if Fury offers  _ you _ a job. It’s hard to leave. And… I guess he already knows you’ve got an incentive to stay.”

That got her attention off the trash can, and back on Clint. 

“I’m… not sure. Elena and I are… still settling that,” she said, sounding a lot more tentative than he remembered ever hearing from her.

“Just seeing where it leads?” Clint guessed, and got a dry laugh and a nod. Well, that made two of them then. He wondered if she and Elena had any better idea how to do that than he and Phil did. “How’s that gonna work if you go back to Driftless?”

“You don’t become an archaeologist if you can’t handle long-distance relationships,” Jones said, shrugging. “I get the feeling SHIELD is harder on those than time zones.” She leaned back against the wall as she said it, like it was no big deal, just a matter of picking a restaurant or something. 

Yeah, she was just as lost as he was.

“I mean, my divorce says yes,” Clint told her. Then he thought of Phil, who’d been so convinced he didn’t even have time for a cat. It wasn’t, after all, only their own brains that were making life difficult. Life was already gonna be difficult if they did this, the brains just kind of… served like a rattle-trap, warning them. 

“Hmm,” Jones said, eyeing him. “And yet.”

And yet here he and Phil were, trying anyway. He wasn’t sure why Jones was turning to  _ him _ for advice— except that she only knew him and Phil and oh god, of the two it was probably good she hadn’t asked Phil.

Or Bent, he supposed. He sighed, trying to sort out his thoughts.

“And yet, some people are worth trying for,” he said, thinking of Phil’s face, going slack and awed as Clint had rubbed his shoulders last night. Yeah-- that had definitely been worth the price of admission.

“Oh, that’s not the question,” Jones told him. “The question is in SHIELD or out of it, or in a kind of split situation. And Elena’s right, it’s way too early. I’m stuck here for a little— Merlin’s frantic about all the artifacts in your possession right now and someone’s got to see them decently treated. And keep Elena safe from SHIELD.”

“Outside world’s no great shakes either,” Clint said, getting up and brushing off his ass-- the bench had been none too clean. “And SHIELD’s got great dental.”

“So does the University. Wouldn’t have figured you the type to be tied to SHIELD by the benefits package,” Jones replied, following him.

“Well, be a mercenary long enough and you’ll start to long for a decent care package. DIY root canals were never really my thing.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, except proximity to Jones always seemed to make him extra-anxious to prove he was tough and competent. 

“Ah, yeah. Sounds like being an adjunct,” Jones said, sagely. “Speaking of. Merlin called yesterday.”

Clint felt his stomach drop, but gestured at her to go on.

“Tess took a turn for the worse,” Jones said. “Some kind of infection. It’s not looking good. I’m sorry, Clint.”

Clint thought of her, backing away from him through hip-deep water rushing over the dam, her hair burning pink, her face distorted in rage.

“When… when did it happen?” he managed, through the rasp in his throat.

“Couple days ago. Just after they moved her out of the ICU.” And into a ward with fewer security protocols. Clint froze. It was a coincidence. Surely. Surely? 

Nah. 

“We should… we should be getting back,” he said. And he should text Phil. Just… just in case. He thought about texting Phil, inviting himself over for dinner after all, making sure Phil got home all right. But when he pulled out his phone, he found a text waiting.

_ Brought my ex a catnip pickle. I think she likes it better than me.  _

For a moment, Clint couldn’t figure out what he was reading. When he  _ did _ figure it out, half of him wanted very badly to know where Phil had found a catnip pickle, why he’d thought it was a thing his ex-cat needed, and what Sitwell’s response had been. He nearly asked, then Phil added:

_ Js making dinner. Pray for me. _

So that settled that. Clint resigned himself to an evening of worrying about Phil and drafting a request to the SHIELD Facilities and Supplies Director about a job shadow and report option to finish his textiles course. 

He texted Phil  _ Sounds fun. Remember youre more than just your pickle _ and had Jones take him home.

####

“I’m sorry, Phil, are you…  _ texting _ somebody?”

Phil looked up from his phone to find Jasper staring down at him incredulously. He was still wearing the ancient aluminized flame-retardant apron that Phil’d given him as a gift after a barbecuing attempt gone awry, and wielding a spatula. Phil rolled sideways to avoid being dripped on, and Rosie skittered out of his way. Which pulled her leash off his wrist, of course, and then she took off running for the rhododendrons. 

It took Phil a good ten minutes to extricate her, growling, from her hiding place.

“What possessed you to get Rosie a leash anyway?” he sighed as he brought her back to Jasper.

“She needs stimulation. Walks are good for cats,” Jasper said. 

“She went flat on the grass as soon as we brought her outside and hasn’t stopped trying to run for the bushes since.”

“Cats don’t always know what’s good for them,” Jasper shrugged. “Just like people. Speaking of which.” He held Phil’s phone out to him, and Phil belatedly realized it was still open to his text window, where he’d been in the middle of typing… and then erasing, and then typing again… a response to Clint.

It currently read

_ Ill have you know my pickle is _ and nothing more. Phil readjusted Rosie in his arms, and tried to forget how he’d been going to complete that sentence. 

“I can’t text people about Rosie now?” he asked, on the principle that the best defense was a good offense. “Is that where we’re at with this? You can’t erase our history, Jasper.”

“Fuck you, Phil, that’s just texting. I’m talking about  _ texting _ -texting. Do you have any idea what face you were making? And who the hell is ‘Indy’ anyway?”

“You need to check the chops, Jasper. Unless you were going for shoe-leather on purpose,” Phil said, grabbing his phone and stuffing it back into his pocket. He could finish that text later— if he hadn’t thought better of it by then.

Jasper raised his eyebrows.

“Phil, if you want to change the subject, we can change the subject, but don’t you dare malign my grillmaster skills. Or I  _ will _ overcook your damn pork chop. Now put down my cat and go get a plate for the corn, unless you want to tell me what’s got your undies in a bunch.”

“My undies are entirely un-bunched,” Phil told him, as he looped Rosie’s leash over a croquet stake. Rosie immediately raced to the end of it, tugged, and flopped flat, huffing loudly. He sympathized. Coming over to Jasper’s had seemed like a good idea at the time— they hadn’t had a chance to catch up after the sudden end of the op like they usually did. And his dissertation had become nearly unreadable— he’d gotten too used to having Clint there, reading over his shoulder, as an incentive to writing. It would’ve been selfish to ask Clint to come over and just sit there looking pretty and interested so that Phil could write (not to mention possibly counter-productive, with the new state of affairs between them), so here he was instead.

Only, he kept seeing Jasper and either thinking  _ mole _ , which was annoying, or  _ no fucking way he’s the mole,  _ which was honestly worse because Phil was an intelligence agent. A  _ senior _ one. He was supposed to be able to suspect his own moth— Director, if necessary. And so he’d ended up cranky, sulky, and texting Clint to try to jolly himself into a better mood. 

“Your undies bunch any higher, you’re going to be singing falsetto,” Jasper grouched, waving the spatula at him. “How the fuck did Barton put up with you, all day every day?”

“ _ Some _ people appreciate me.” Phil turned his back on Jasper to get the requested plate.

“Well, Barton did grow up in a circus,” Jasper replied. “Guess it takes all kinds.”

“Clint’s great,” Phil snapped, before he could stop himself. Well, that wasn’t compromising at  _ all _ . “Um. At being a roommate. Far better than some people I could mention who clipped their toenails in the kitchen.”

“Excuse me, that kitchen, if you remember, also had a bathtub. And a toilet. Because it was a fucking one-room shack, Phil. Don’t try to distract me with El Segundo, you always try to do that, and I always know you’ve got some bug up your butt. As long as you’re texting him, why don’t you invite Barton over? Maybe he can sweeten you up.”

Phil was glad his back was to Jasper, and just hoped he’d choked too softly to be heard over the sizzle of grilling meat. It was pointless to deny it  _ was _ Clint he’d been texting, it’d just look suspicious. And he was 90 percent sure Jasper wasn’t serious about inviting Clint. But if Phil demurred, he was going to do a 180 at the speed of light.

“No, he’s out with—” here, Phil abruptly realized he’d just made a mistake, and was about to make another, but couldn’t shut his mouth in time— “Missouri Jones.”

“ _ Is _ he,” Jasper said, and Phil closed his eyes and sighed to himself.

Not only had he just shown way too much knowledge of Clint’s schedule for just-a-friend, he’d also suggested that Elena Magnos might be somewhere alone. Which was only dangerous if Jasper were the mole. And if he were, he might try to sneak off soon to tell somebody, and Phil’s have to be on watch, and that all seemed… exhausting.

“I wouldn’t have expected her to unglue herself from Magnos’s side so soon. What’re they up to?” Jasper asked, seemingly idly. 

“Dunno,” Phil shrugged, turning around and trying to look gormless. “Didn’t ask.”

It was true. Clint had told him.

Jasper gave him a long look, then slumped, spatula in one hand and an ear of roasted corn in the other.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

The ear was fresh off the grill— it had to be burning hot, and Jasper’s hot pad was full of holes, as Phil had learned to his regret.

“Hate what?” he asked, depositing the platter underneath the corn and nudging until Jasper dropped it.

“You know what,” Jasper said, still not looking up. “And I don’t blame you. If I were you, I’d… well, I would too.”

“I… don’t know what you’re—”

“ _ Can _ it, Phil, have some respect for me, as the new owner of your old cat if not as your coworker.” Jasper threw down his spatula and crossed his arms, glaring. “I know how it looks, and I know what Fury probably asked you to do; I’d suck at my job if I didn’t. Just, spare me, okay?”

_ There is no way _ , Phil thought,  _ that he’s the mole. _ Of course, that’s exactly what someone trying not to act like the mole would do, too. And Jasper was the best patsy… no. Phil stopped the loop with a mental screech. Without fresh evidence, there was no way he was going to satisfy himself on either side.

“Okay,” he said softly, like an apology. Jasper grimaced.

“Why’d you come over today, Phil?” he asked.

Phil paused, unsure why it was so hard to say what he wanted to say. Because, if he was wrong and Jasper was the mole, he’d look stupid? Like he’d been duped? Because he wasn’t sure how he’d live with Jasper’s betrayal? 

Of losing someone else he’d let into his life? Put like that….

“Because you’re my friend,” Phil said. Because Clint was teaching him to be brave.

Jasper looked up, then, holding his gaze, and Phil concentrated on just… meaning it. 

“Do you think Fury’s over in Alexander Pierce’s backyard right now, saying the same thing to him?” Jasper asked. Which wasn’t an indication of moleness or lack thereof; Pierce was the other logical conclusion to reach— they all had.

“I think Alexander Pierce has people to do his grilling for him,” Phil replied, forcing himself to be breezy. Jasper snorted.

“True that.”

“And… I think Fury would mean it just as much as I do. If he said it.” Phil continued. Then, because he was still coward enough to try and cover up his sincerity after dropping it, “speaking of Alexander Pierce, did I ever mention that Clint thought Pierce’d had an affair with Dr. Santander back in their twenties?”

Jasper blinked, shook his head, and blinked again. 

“I’m sorry, he what?” 

“Or possibly a threesome with Santander and a cuneiform expert, Clint wasn’t sure.”

“Yeah, well, thank Barton for me, will you? I needed new nightmares. Jesus, Phil.” But he was smiling a little, and his face seemed lighter. “Oh, hey, speaking of Barton. Here. Swap.”

Jasper dug in his pocket, and held something out.

“What is this, a washer?” Phil asked,taking the thing and rolling it around in his palm. “Why—”

“I found it when I got back from Driftless,” Jasper said. “It’s from the futon. I hope you didn’t end up needing it.”

“We… managed,” Phil said, staring at the thing. “There’s usually a spare anyway, right?”

“Right,” Jasper said, sounding skeptical. “Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t manage to scare Barton off. He’s a sharp guy, and it looks like he took good care of you.”

Phil abruptly decided that Rosie’s paws were the dearest little things he’d ever seen, and dropped to the lawn for a closer examination. 

“Yes he did,” he mumbled, playing with Rosie’s toes while she glared at him. “Chops ready? I’m starving.” 

He knew he was going to have to get used to talking about Clint outside of Andrew’s office or the hospital, but… maybe he could start in slightly less harrowing circumstances than Jasper’s scrutiny first. Like, perhaps, an enhanced interrogation by the CIA.

“Chops are ready,” Jasper said skeptically, “now stop molesting our cat and get up here.”

####

Phil’s dreams that night, for a change, were filled with Clint writhing above him on the futon— before turning into nightmares where Jasper and Alexander Pierce burst in, brandishing jackalopes and broken vinyl. As the dream had progressed, it turned out that all three of them, Clint, Jasper, and Pierce, had been controlled by Rosie the cat.

In the morning, he dragged his still sleep-deprived self to SHIELD, sat in on meetings with Jasper, with Pierce, picked up and dusted off Project Franklin, and drafted yet another briefing for the WSC. After lunch, he disappeared into the warehouse, where he took off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and waited impatiently for Clint to arrive.

Clint, when he finally dragged in, looked as exhausted as Phil felt, and Phil said so.

“More like  _ con _ founded,” Clint said, flopping over a crate with a groan. “Finally had my debrief with Director Fury.”

That was not what Phil had expected, and he came over to put a comforting hand on Clint’s shoulder. After all, no one was watching but the security cameras; he could afford to drop the Agent-face for a little. 

“And?” he said.

“And I think I was expecting more yelling?” Clint said, looking up at him with lost eyes.

“He did… tell you he thinks you did a good job, right?” Phil asked. And if Nick hadn’t, Phil was going to have  _ words _ with him.

“Yeah. Yeah he did. That’s what’s got me all… all…. Phil, I nearly got killed. Nearly got  _ you _ killed, too. If it wasn’t for me, the Forkenbrock’d still be standing. This wasn’t—”

Oh. Phil got it then. He’d  _ told _ Nick he’d need to explain this bit, but apparently Nick’d just left Clint to catch up, the way he did… well, everyone.

“We’re SHIELD agents,” Phil told Clint gently, “we’ve all had missions go south, we’ve all made mistakes. It’s how you make up for them. That’s why they didn’t kick you out after you brought Natasha in. That’s what Nick was trying to tell you here. The mission went south, and you dragged your concussed ass out from under a pile of rubble and chased a suspect through miles of caves in order to save it. And that was just the end. Dr. Magnos is back alive, the artifact’s been retrieved— and neutralized— and we’ve uncovered… things any good Director would give their right arm to know. Clint, give yourself credit.  _ And _ , last but not least, you did all that while maintaining a 4.0.”

“Not if I don’t finish the incomplete on Textiles,” Clint muttered, but he was blushing and starting to look a little less distraught.

“Do you want to?” Phil asked, genuinely curious. 

“Light duty’ll drive me crazy. Plus… I dunno. It’d be nice to have that to wave in the faces of the techs that tried to tell me that thermoplastic-coated shit was just as breathable as kevlar. But I tried to work on it last night and I just… couldn’t concentrate. Or sleep.”

“I had the same problem with Chapter 4,” Phil admitted. He paused a moment, watching Clint. He looked run down, a little desperate, and Phil couldn’t imagine how Clint  _ could _ sleep, after everything. But he’d napped on Phil’s couch, the other night. And Phil had wished he’d been there, to help Phil concentrate on his homework. And there was the matter of the three pounds of kale in his refrigerator…. Well. It couldn’t hurt to ask. Just for a night.

“Would you… like to come over for dinner tonight, and bring your homework? I’ve still got Chapter 4 to finish editing. I mean, if—”

“Yes,” Clint said immediately, sitting up and beaming at him. “Hell yes. But only if I get to help you make dinner this time. No napping.”

“No napping,” Phil smiled back at him, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

As it turned out, there was napping that night, but it was after dinner, when Clint fell asleep on his textbook, then dropped over onto Phil’s shoulder. Phil found himself suddenly unable to concentrate on edits, too distracted by Clint’s warm body on his. Then he fell asleep, too. They lasted until midnight this time before Phil’s snores woke them both up and Phil went into bed. Clint stayed on the couch, curled up with a pillow between his knees, sleeping. At least, he did for three hours, before he woke them both up by screaming, and took himself off home.

The next night, Tuesday, Phil didn’t even bother to ask. He just waited for Clint at the end of the day, and they went to his place together. Wednesday was the same, Thursday too. Friday, they went out to dinner in Old Town Alexandria and afterwards went walking down in a park by the Potomac, swatting mosquitoes off each other when they weren’t busy kissing in the middle of the path and scaring the tourists. On Saturday, by mutual unspoken accord, they didn’t see each other. Phil spent the day with Elena and Jones. Clint pried Bent out of his lab and dragged him, blinking, into the sunlight. Neither of them slept more than an hour all night.

Sunday afternoon, they intended to work on their report and dissertation, but ended up playing Phil’s records while they attempted to do something, at last, with the kohlrabi. Sunday night they got take-out and fell asleep on the couch again, until Phil’s snoring made him retreat to the bedroom. Clint woke up near to morning on Monday, and took himself off home— though not before he’d made coffee, wrapping the french press in dish towels so it would still be warm when Phil woke up. Monday, Clint decided it was worth trying to sleep in his own bed again, because he was meeting for the first time with Andrew Garner on Tuesday and wanted to be able to give him accurate data.

Tuesday found him asleep with his head on Phil’s shoulder on the bus back to Phil’s place, because apparently he still couldn’t sleep in his own apartment without dreaming about Hervey floating out of his fridge, wreathed in blacked kohlrabi. 

Or so he’d told Phil while they’d been alone in the warehouse that afternoon. It had become the part of the day Phil looked forward to most— apart from going home. After whatever fresh hell Agent Coulson’d had to deal with in the morning, he’d get to come sequester himself with Clint in the warehouse and work out the frustration. They weren’t learning that much— twice they’d thought they’d discovered a missing box, only to realize later it’d been a cataloging error. Phil was learning a lot about Clint’s favorite curse words, though; it was more endearing than it should have been. 

The only real fly in the ointment was that they’d learned that Jasper Sitwell had signed off on the arrival of nearly all the boxes, which meant that he’d had the opportunity to divert pretty much anything he wanted before it even made it to the inventory. Assuming he had wanted to divert anything. They remained no closer to ruling Jasper-- or anyone-- in or out than they did to answering any other questions. Phil hoped that Magnos, who had Burgoyne’s notes and the effects from her office as well as the Guatemala dig inventories, was having better luck than they were.

So Phil hadn’t been surprised to find Clint sacked out on his couch, barely a minute after Phil’d gone into the kitchen to get dinner started. He paused, reluctant to wake Clint, and took the time to just… take him in, from the lavender circles still lingering under his eyes, to the careful way he’d tucked his knees up to take pressure off his obliques and hips, to his big hands folded carefully under his cheek. 

As Phil watched, he felt something bubble up inside him. It wasn’t panic, but it was unsettled, anxious… kind of like Phil felt when stuck in a safehouse, waiting for an signal. That same sort of liminal time when you could need to move any moment, and suddenly your bladder feels painfully full or you just want to break for the door, hop the next train… anything to get forward motion. He nearly texted Andrew— got out his phone to— before realizing he had no idea what to ask.

Instead, he leaned down and brushed his palm gently over Clint’s face. Clint snuffled, nuzzling against Phil’s hand in his sleep, and the lines lingering on his forehead relaxed.

So did Phil’s gut.

His  _ heart _ twisted, but Phil was used to that.

_ Oh _ , he thought, then looked around his living room. The record Clint had put on was still playing, his shoes were piled next to the couch, and his book bag was draped over an accent chair, the way it had been almost every day in the last week. Clint’s feet were tucked neatly together, and one of his socks had a hole in the toe that had been darned with purple thread. 

Phil didn’t know what to do with that, or with the heavy way it made his heart thump, so he went back to making dinner. Hopefully it would all seem less overwhelming once Clint woke up to fill the empty space.

It did. Phil forgot his nerves in the face of so much Clint in his kitchen, at his table, and flirting wildly, and he fell asleep later with his head on Clint’s lap, as Clint combed gently through what was left of his hair. He was in the middle of sleepily wondering why he’d never realized snuggling could feel better than sex— well, better than  _ some _ sex, anyway— when he drifted off.

Clint stayed too late to catch the Metro again, fast asleep on the couch. He merely tipped sideways and kept on sleeping when Phil peeled himself up and took himself reluctantly off to merge with his c-pap mask for the night. He was gone by the time Phil got up in the morning, though Phil vaguely remembered him clanking around in the bathroom sometime in the wee hours. And when Phil made it into the kitchen, coffee was waiting for him again, nearly mummified by its dishcloth wrappings. Half of Phil’s stash of pre-peeled hard boiled eggs was gone. Phil spent an absurd amount of time grinning at the dirty plate by his sink and the opened egg bag.

Also, Clint made fine strong coffee, though Phil couldn’t figure out where he’d left his dirty coffee mug.

####

On Wednesday night, Clint stayed home. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time— Nat was back, and he’d wanted to spend some time with her. Plus… plus, he’d been a little shaken when he’d left Phil’s apartment Wednesday morning.

It had been five AM when Clint had woken up, stumbled to the bathroom, and then found his way to the open door of Phil’s bedroom. Clint had felt rooted to the spot, watching him snuffle peacefully into his c-pap mask. Part of him had wanted to pad in, pull back the covers and curl up, snuggling into the stillness, the cool of the sheets, the warmth of Phil’s skin. The other half of him hadn’t wanted to move, certain he’d disturb Phil’s peace. And that was the last thing he wanted to do, though it seemed like all he did was cause tornadoes in Phil’s life. 

_ That’s not fair _ , a little voice that sounded more like Phil’s than his own said in the back of his brain.  _ He loves you. He said so. You’re welcome here.  _

Which only, Clint had told himself, made it more important to be careful of himself. Phil’d said he needed time. Clint needed to give him that time. He’d peeled himself away from the door, gotten his shoes back on, made coffee, and caught the first morning run of the number 16, headed for home. Instead of the warehouse with Phil, that afternoon had brought a first visit to the OT, bow in hand for the first time since June, to work on getting his range of motion back. Nat had appeared in the corridor, waiting for him, and what with one thing and another, he’d been at her apartment before he’d remembered to text Phil where he was.

“Phil says hi, and he’s glad you’re back safe” Clint had said, reading Natasha the text while watching her water her plants. She was moving slowly, clearly tired but not, as far as he could tell, injured. It felt good having her back; exciting and safe both at once. Another piece of his heart coming home. Her place in it was still so new he hadn’t quite realized how much he missed her until she came back— that was as true of Driftless as it was now. 

“Did he doubt it?” Nat had asked, pausing with her watering can in the air.

“Not really,” Clint had said. “He thinks, and I quote, that you’re ‘formidable.’”

“Well, the same back to him,” Nat had said, then came over to sit next to him, looking over his shoulder at their text string. 

Clint had pulled it away from her gaze and glared at her half-heartedly.

“How are you doing, Clint?” she asked softly, and Clint had shaken his head.

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

“My answer’s all redacted. You’ll need to ask the Director. Clint. Do not make me tell you I was worried about you.” 

She’d said it like a threat, and Clint had laughed and changed the subject. Later, though, he’d told her what she wanted to know; about the nightmares, about the way his apartment echoed like a mushroom cave to him now, about nights on Phil’s couch, about the peace that’d felt too fragile for him to hold, that morning.

“And what would you need, to feel you deserve that peace?” she had asked him.

Clint hadn’t had an answer for her then, or a little while later when she’d kicked him out so she could deal with her jet lag. He’d gone home, failing to get off the Green line when the time would have come to transfer for Phil’s place, letting it take him home to his little brick walk-up instead. It grated a little; like he’d failed to make the default choice even though he’d done literally nothing except stay still.  

And so, on Wednesday night, he laid down in his own bed, watched the headlights from the cars passing below him make streaks over his ceiling, and tried to sleep. It’d seemed so easy before Hervey; before Driftless. He wondered if the OT could help with that. 

At midnight, Clint finally gave up trying to sleep after failing to so even drift vaguely downwards towards unconsciousness. The emptiness of his apartment reminded him too much of the silence in the caves when Tess had turned out the lights. 

He texted Phil. 

He knew it was weak. He just… hoped that the connection would break his brain free of the anxiety spiral. Phil texted back, just a contentless little reassurance, and they chatted back and forth for at least an hour before Clint thought he’d finally gotten drowsy enough to sleep.

At 2:30 AM, he texted Phil again, something about having grown used to opera, and that being the problem. He didn’t expect a response. Phil texted right back, something in Italian that Clint assumed was some kind of opera lyric, because Phil was a dork.

At three AM, still unable to sleep, Clint got up, opened his laptop, and looked up what Phil’d sent.  It was the Italian for  _ go the fuck to sleep, dear _ . At 3:15, Clint finally stopped laughing whenever he looked at the translation. 

At four AM, Clint was still awake, but didn’t text Phil because he didn’t want Phil to know that.

At five AM, Phil buzzed the door to his apartment and came up, bag in tow.

“What the fuck Phil, it’s five AM,” Clint told him, though without a lot of heat. Phil gave him an Eyebrow, and slipped past him to place the bag on Clint’s miniscule counter. 

“I brought you breakfast,” he said, like it was nothing. 

“That… wasn’t necessary,” Clint managed, even though his stomach was telling him otherwise. It was hard work, staying up all night.

“We were up half the night texting,” Phil told him, unpacking clamshells with his back still to Clint. “And I’m guessing you were up the rest of the night anyway; I know I did. So I feel like I kind of owe you breakfast. And a lot of coffee.” He turned around, smiling fondly, with two boxes of coffee in his hands, and Clint fell in love all over again.

Breakfast was nice, coffee was copious, and as, all around his neighborhood, car doors began to slam and voices rise with the coming day, Clint felt peace begin to settle over him at last. He spent the short drive to the Triskelion’s remote lot in Phil’s car half day-dreaming and looking back over at Phil, from time to time, in wonder. 

That afternoon, Thursday, the both fell asleep in the warehouse; Clint leaning over a large box, and Phil half-curled into an empty bottom shelf. And that evening, they didn’t bother to make plans— Clint just walked out the door next to Phil, followed him to the SHIELD shuttle, and climbed into his car next to him. 

They were just past the Pentagon when Phil paused, tilted his head, and said

“If you want, we can detour by your apartment so you can get a go bag and just stay over. I’d like to wake up with you still around.”

“Okay,” Clint said, surprised at how light his heart felt. “I’d like that. Take me home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: It's not so much an ending as a new beginning-- or several new beginnings. Meanwhile, Phil has three pounds of bacon in his fridge, and Clint's down with that. So is Nick Fury. 
> 
> I'll try to post the chapter by the New Year, as it's about 50% written, but please take that as tentative. I may need the usual five weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want hits of Driftless between updates, come find me on [ my tumblr](http://kat-har.tumblr.com/). I'll update the [Driftlessfic](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/driftlessfic) tag between chapter updates with snippets, inspirations, and fic chatter, and expound at probably-great length on anything you want to ask about the story. That's also where I'll update posting schedule, if I ever need to.
> 
> Concrit welcomed in comments or via tumblr ask.


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